Octavia's Adventure

The warm sun rose in Canterlot, illuminating the flat of the premier cellist in all of the Royal City. She would never admit it herself, but her talents surpassed all those of her peers in the orchestra business. One thing she had never understood, though, was why of all musical cutie marks she had a Treble Clef. After all, her specialty was playing cello, and all cellists read from the bass clef.

This was too early to think about it, though, she thought as she reluctantly climbed out of the nice, warm, and soft bed. She picked up her signature bowtie from the night stand and wrapped it around her neck before turning to her bed. She felt naked without it, which she giggled to herself as she thought of how silly an idea that was to her. How could a pony who normally wore nothing but a bowtie feel naked? Unlike most of her Canterlot peers, she didn’t tend to wear saddles, dresses, or fancy shawls. They all tended to get in the way of her profession.

The bowtie was stylish while not invasive, and that was why she chose to wear it, day after day. She smiled as she remembered the day that her father gave it to her. It was Hearth’s Warming, the first one after she had become lead cellist at the Young Musician’s Orchestra. She had been so excited for the chance to lead the cellos in the Hearth’s Warming concert. Her father had given her the bowtie to wear to the concert.

It was made of a soft silk, one that felt exquisite across her skin. Certainly it had to some from somewhere magnificent. She thought about it, then considered maybe it came from Saddle Arabia. She had been to a shop that sold all kinds of wares from the region, particularly after Princess Celestia held the ambassador’s conference. Since then, that had become one of Octavia’s favourite stores to purchase rugs and tapestries, though she had noticed that they had various fabrics and garments woven from them. One, in particular, was a bowtie with shockingly similar characteristics as hers. She refused them, though, because of how much this bowtie meant to her.

She had never spent a day without it. Sure, she had been to at least three different tailors to resize the strap so that it fit her growing neck as she was maturing, but the bowtie remained the same. She had worn it so often that it became her trademark, as it were, more so than her own cutie mark.

Snapping from her musings, she gracefully spread the sheets back over the bed before tucking them neatly in the corners and along the sides. This was certainly the prim and proper way to make a bed. She scoffed sometimes to think how others made their beds. She had once gone to a hotel while on tour with the orchestra through Manehattan. The hotel seemed nice; the lobby, elevators, and even the hallways were elegant and graceful. When she entered the room, however, it was a different story. The bed, for goodness’s sake, the bed was atrocious. She had to pull it completely apart to make it if she were to bear to sleep in it.

It was just how she was. Things had to be just so. If they weren’t, it just didn’t feel right. Especially when it came to her two biggest comforts while away from home: bed and tea. As she trotted through her flat, she made way for the kitchen. Tea sounded perfect to liven her mood and get her ready for practicing for tonight’s event. She went over the songs she was going to play in her head while making a graceful, pleasurable trot to her destination. She had just finished thinking of Beethooven’s Fifth Symphony as she placed the kettle under the sink to fill it with fresh water.

As she filled the pot, she looked out her kitchen window over the street to a quaint little shop she had always been meaning to visit. It vended wares ranging from teacups to entire tea sets. While she had passed by this shop every day for the last few months, she had never the time to stop and visit it properly. She had twice stopped in front of the windows to gaze at the various tea accessories, but never once had she ever summoned the courage to go inside.

And the reason why just stepped out of the shop now. It was a blue stallion with two beamed eighth notes for a cutie mark. He was a regular patron of the store, and one Octavia had always admired. She had read somewhere that his name was Noteworthy.

She stared at Noteworthy for a while. She didn’t know why he gave her this feeling, but she knew that she wanted to hold onto it. It wasn’t until she could feel the tea kettle overflowing that she snapped back to attention.

Come on, Octavia, she thought, this is unbecoming behaviour of somepony of your aptitude. This is certainly not how your parents taught you to conduct yourself! Why, if father were in the other room he would have scolded me and given me a talking-to.

She shook her head and closed her curtain. She needed to keep focused for tonight’s event. As she began thinking about how she would caress her bow and pull it across her cello’s strings to play Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, she placed the tea kettle on the stove and turned it on. She gazed at the pictures that decorated her wall. There was one that her father had taken at her very first concert, with the tiniest of cellos. She considered herself adorable, but she also considered that vein and rude to assert to any other pony.

Farther to the left was a photo she had taken when she was in the Royal Castle, particularly, last year’s Grand Galloping Gala. She shuddered to think about the previous one, where that particularly obnoxious pink pony had invaded her personal space. And she had attempted to ‘help’ her play her cello. If she never saw that pink pony again, it would be too soon. She shook her head. Octavia! How uncouth for you to think of another pony like that! That is certainly uncivil, and you should be ashamed of yourself for thinking that!

As her eyes wandered farther to the left, she saw the picture of Fancy Pants. Again, those ruffians from Ponyville had been present. Though Fancy Pants enjoyed their company, it was certainly unbefitting of anypony at a Canterlot Garden Party to behave in such a manner. And... yes, that pink pony had been there too. Octavia gave another involuntary shudder.

The rest of the wall had other picture depicting various concerts and events she had played since the garden party. It certainly had kept her busy this year. She had been invited back to play Fancy Pant’s Garden Party, she was with the orchestra for the usual playlist at the Gala. The big event she was preparing for, though, the one tonight had to go off without a hitch. It was imperative that she play without a flaw in her rhythm, without a skipped beat or rushed note. Tonight was too important because tonight, she was playing for the Coronation Ball of the new Princess Twilight.

Wait, she thought to herself, Twilight Sparkle... why do I know that name? She placed a hoof to her chin as she pondered. I know this, but then again, I don’t. I feel like I have met this Twilight before. She was interrupted by the sound of the tea kettle whistling.

She turned it off and waited precisely thirty-three seconds as measured by her grandfather clock in the hall, before pouring the tea in a delicate pink cup and pulling out a box of assorted teas. This morning felt like an Earl Gray morning, and without further ado, she pulled out a bag and placed it gently in the cup. The dark colour of the bag dispersed into the clear water, spreading without provocation. She let it steep for specifically 305 seconds before pulling out a spoon and retrieving the tea bag from the water. With a stir, whatever irregularities to the consistency and colour were solved. This was pleasing to Octavia, as she picked up the cup and set it on the table.

She would need something for breakfast, and as she thought about Für Elise she looked through her cupboard. She contemplated a bowl of porridge, but dismissed it. This was not a porridge day. She needed something... more. Her typical breakfast was eggs and fried hay, but as she checked her refrigerator, there were no eggs present. This simply would not do.

She adjusted her bowtie and walked out the door, checking twice that she had her key on her. With a graceful spin, she trotted down the stairs and into the street. She gave a glance at the shop she so coveted a look at, but there Noteworthy was, sitting joyfully, seemingly enjoying a cup of tea himself. She thought back to the article in the Canterlot Reporter about him.

It was a “Pony of the Week” column that ran every Sunday. She remembered several of her friends, and herself, featured in the column, but this stallion, Noteworthy, was featured in it not too long ago. It mentioned that he played double bass for the Canterlot Royal Symphony. He came from a little town, Octavia could hardly remember the name; she thought it started with a ‘P’. That wasn’t the first time she had seen him.

He had been at the Grand Galloping Gala at least two years in a row. When she saw him, she began having these feelings. They were less of the platonic admiration she tried convincing herself it was, and more of, could she dare say to herself, love? No, Octavia, that is a silly notion. You haven’t even talked to the stallion and here you are daydreaming that you’re in love with him. How did you ever lose your focus? Octavia berated herself mentally. As she trotted over to the open air market, she couldn’t help but give a backward glance toward Noteworthy, who seemed, Octavia was grateful, unaware of her attention.

She made a bee-line for the farmer’s market, her eye caught on the one egg she would need for her breakfast this morning. She readied her bits, drawing them out of her mane, and trotting up to the farmer.

“Good morrow,” she said in her most formal address.

“Morrow? What’s that mean?” The farmer simply looked at her incredulously.

“I do believe you might call it morning,” Octavia said, with a bit of disappointment. She was raised proper, and to bid somepony ‘good morrow’ was the proper greeting. ‘Morning’ just seemed so... so... improper.

“Well, then, good morning to you too, Miss.” He took to readjusting the display while she judged which egg she definitely wanted. When she had made her selection, she placed her bit on the stand and turned.

“Thank you, kind Sir,” Octavia said, ready to go back and make herself breakfast.

“Thank you much, Miss.”

With a smile on her face, she started to trot off. She hadn’t made it one step when something caught on her bowtie. There was an immediate expression of panic and she stopped to unhook it from whatever rough surface it was sure to have come in contact with, but no matter how she tried, she simply couldn’t get unstuck.

This is certainly a fine situation you have yourself in, Octavia thought to herself. Many Congratulations on making successfully yourself appear ungraceful and improper.

The farmer simply looked at her. “Are ya stuck?”

Octavia could only handle so much. This was certainly annoying her, and the further provocation from the ignorance of this farmer was almost too much to bear. She stopped herself before she could lose her composure completely. Her bowtie was her signature, and if she didn’t have it, she would feel as incomplete as if she were at a concert without a bow. She could still make beautiful music, certainly, but it wouldn’t feel or sound as beautiful if she didn’t have that bowtie.

She pondered taking it off, but with the cart in the way, she couldn’t manoeuvre her hooves to unfasten it. This was certainly not a great start to her day. The farmer came around his booth and helped her off whatever catch the bowtie was on. Her eyes dilated as she heard a tiny ripping sound come from behind her head.

Immediately, she slipped into a shop’s bathroom, into a stall, and took off her bowtie. She still had the feeling of nudity when she took it off, and to be such in public? There was simply no allowing that thought into her head.

She inspected every inch of the fabric, first in the bow itself, then in the soft silk strand that wrapped around her neck. She was appalled to find a small tear in the back, next to the hook. Her day was filled with practice and preparations, a lunch with the orchestra at a charming café, and of course the performance tonight. She wouldn’t have time to take it to her tailor. This was disastrous.

Calm down, Octavia, calm down, she thought to herself, but this was her one and only bowtie. It meant more to her than everything she owned except her cello. In fact, Octavia would say that between her cello and this bowtie, they were both her most prized possessions. This is not a time to panic. A proper lady does not panic at something so… simple. But Octavia knew this wasn’t simple. If she didn’t get it repaired, and she went on with wearing it, she knew there was a significant chance that it would be lost. That was a risk she did not want to ever take. With how much she loved this one piece of cloth, it almost seemed silly—almost.

To any other pony she had told the story of her bowtie, they would often wonder why she still wore it, as opposed to storing it and wearing one that she didn’t care for so much. The truth of the matter was, though, that this was a part of her. This was a much a piece of her as her mane, her tail, her ears and eyes. This was her. Her own father, whom she loved and adored, gave it to her. And since then she had taken such care of it that it had grown to be a piece of her.

She had worn it through the awkward years when she was in high school; she had worn it through the tough years when she was struggling to make her name in the professional orchestra cliques; and she had worn it when she was finally on top of her game. Even if her father wasn’t able to be there for all her performances, she was able to keep him there in spirit by wearing the bowtie. It was her connection to her father.

And now, it was in a state of distress. Her other option, besides wearing it despite the tear, was to take it to the tailor on the way to practice and, dare she even contemplate it, not wear it all day. The thought was also unbearable. While growing up, her father had been to all of her practices, and when she needed him to help, he was always there. He was the one who helped her discover her talent in orchestra.

He was himself an orchestra player. He played viola in the Royal Canterlot Orchestra for a good while before he retired. She would need to visit him this weekend if there was no practice.

She pulled herself from her reverie to contemplate the options at hoof. Option A: She could wear it today despite the tear and risk losing it, possibly forever. Option B: She could take it to the tailor and leave it there today. Certainly Mr. Horseshoepin wouldn’t understand a sudden need to take a day off for something so… ‘impertinent’ he would call it, but to Octavia, it was immensely pertinent.

She fidgeted a little as she thought of each option, and the risks each would have before remembering where she was when the sound of hoof steps echoed to her ears. She put on the bowtie for now, and stepped proudly out of the stall, trying her best to hide all the worries and anxieties that might come across her mind as she trotted home with the egg. Her stomach was beginning to ache from the hunger it was experiencing.

She made it back down to her home street, checking with her hoof every few seconds to make sure her bowtie was still there, despite feeling it on her neck. When she rounded the last corner, she almost made an audible gasp when she nearly bumped into Noteworthy. Luckily, he was facing the other way, conversing with a mare about some town Octavia didn’t care to think about. She kept her eye on him to make sure he didn’t notice her as she began to feel the blood in her cheeks rush to the surface. Once in the stairwell, she climbed the stairs as quick as she could and fumbled around with her key until finding it. Her hooves were shaking, partly from the anxiety over her bowtie, partly from the near miss with Noteworthy.

What is wrong with you today, Octavia? This is certainly not how you normally act! Compose yourself, have a fulfilling breakfast, and the solution to your dilemma will be worked out in time. With a resigned sigh and a couple of deep breaths, Octavia managed to calm her shaking and put the key in the lock. With a twist, she was granted access to her home again. The familiar lavender walls were calming, but her mind was racing.

She tried to calm her mind, to act with grace and dignity. This was a problem she could solve. It wasn’t like the world was coming to an end. But if she lost the bowtie…

She quickly reassured herself that the kitchen window curtains were closed, took off her bowtie, and rested it on the table. It was delicate in this state. She was fearful of what damage she might have caused on her way back from the market. This is certainly not the day I had expected when I woke up this morning, she thought to herself. Though, who really expected a day to go wrong in just such a way as this? How had she even caught herself up on the cart?

This was quite the mystery. One she would have to solve later, though, her stomach made the most unruly sound, reminding her than she hadn’t eaten anything this morning. She took the egg to the skillet she skilfully placed on the stove. She fired it up and cracked the egg into it. With a sizzle that ignited Octavia’s senses, the egg white began to cook. She let it cook until the white was the precise consistency, then flipped it and covered it with the lid. If everything else was going to go wrong, at least she had her breakfast.

She let her gaze drift over to the table while she let the egg cook to a delicious perfection, only to notice her untouched tea on the table, probably cold by now. She had completely forgotten it in her desire to grab an egg for her breakfast.

With a resigned sigh of defeat, she put her finished egg on a plate and set it on the table. At least she could eat her breakfast in peace. She pulled a fork and knife from the drawer next to the sink, cut out a piece of the egg and was lifting it to her awaiting mouth when her doorbell rang.

With a disapproving feeling, she set down her fork and walked gracefully to the door. She peered out the spy hole and was greeted by the image of none other than her orchestra leader, Frederick Horseshoepin. Putting on a smile to defy her feelings of anxiety, frustration, and now annoyance, she opened the door. The look on Frederick’s face was stern, and fairly disapproving.

“I thought I told you an early practice session, Octavia,” Frederick said. “And this is unacceptable!” She looked at her Grandfather Clock to discover that it was now nine o’clock.

“It has been the most unstable of mornings, Frederick, you must understand. First, I was out of eggs, then I…” she stopped in mid-sentence and put a hoof to her neck. Her face grew bright red as she realized she didn’t have her bowtie on. With dilated eyes, she nervously backed up from the door.

“Then you what, Octavia?” Frederick was less than pleased with the way his star cellist, well, in fact his only cellist, was behaving.

“Then I…” she turned her gaze nervously to the table, where she had left it. “I mean, I…” The glare that Frederick was giving her was enough to freeze anypony in their tracks. Knowing that he controlled her fate as a musician was only that much more intimidating. She tried to keep her composure, but there was nothing she could do to escape that stare. Even when she closed her eyes, it felt like she could still see it, penetrating her eyelids and piercing straight into her soul.

“Finish your sentence! For Celestia’s sake! The Coronation Celebration is this evening at five o’clock. We must all be prepared, and we must make nary a mistake!” Frederick was standing so aggressively at the door to her flat. This was not the kind of day she expected to have at all.

Hoof still covering her throat, she had reached the table, fumbled with her other foreleg, and picked up her bowtie. “I ripped my bowtie, Frederick!” she confessed with tears in her eyes. She had damaged the one thing that had always meant so much to her. It was her connection to her father, no matter the distance between them.

“Is that what you’re so worked up about, Octavia? Is that all? I swear! You should just go get a new one from that shop I always see you in!” She could only stand there, fur soaking in all the tears that were leaking from her eyes. “I want you to show up at lunch since you’re not ready for morning rehearsal. Use the rest of the morning to pull yourself together!”

Good going, Octavia, she mentally scolded herself. You’ve really done it this time, old girl. Now we’ll see how Frederick tolerates you, or rather, how he decides to eject you from his merry orchestra. And then we’ll see how you do without a steady income, a lovely life, or any sense of security at all. This only worsened Octavia’s mood. It had gone from hopeful and cheery, to anxious and worried, to frustrated and irritated, and now, now Octavia was sad and lonely. Frederick had closed the door and gone, but the disapproval he left in his wake was tearing into Octavia.

How could things have gone so sourly? This morning started out so beautiful and grand, but now… now it was just a mess. She needed to compose herself. This is how a filly might go about things, Octavia. You are a fully grown mare! You don’t need to be behaving like this! She began to wonder where these feelings came from. Her father was fully supportive; he was the best father she could ask for. He taught her everything she knew about playing her cello, and she was ever so eager to learn what he had to tell her.

Growing up in his household was a wondrous time. They spent plenty of time together during the day, and when he was gone at night, off playing with the Canterlot Royal Orchestra, she was safe and sound, listening to bedtime stories from her foalsitter. Her father was always there for her. He attended every practice, every concert, and every event from the day she picked up the cello, to the day he retired. She had honoured his wishes on letting him move in to the home with all the other retired Canterlot Symphony players, much to her protest. That was the first fight they had ever really been in.

With all those years of steady devotion, not a single disapproving look ever came from her father. She could see in his eyes that he was always happy to see her, even when she had made a mistake. And when she did make those mistakes, which come ever so often in adolescence, he was there to make sure she learned the proper correction for her error. He was never disapproving; he was never rude or mean. He always used love and caring to look after her.

So, then, where did these feelings of inadequacy come from? What sort of thing happened in her past that caused her to feel this way? While she found herself smiling about the memories of her father, she quickly dropped the smile when she returned to reality, tethered back by the bowtie that was now carried in her hoof.

“Oh, father, I…” she said. “I really wish you weren’t so far away.” With new resolve, she went back to her breakfast, determined to make this day better than this morning.