Chapter 1: The Aunting Hour

Chapter 1:  The Aunting Hour

Lord Coltington’s body bobbed gently in the pond, the darkness of night drawing a veil over eyes that stared unseeingly into the waving duckweed below; tomorrow the maid would announce his discovery with a scream.

Now that is the way to begin a story, and coincidentally the first line in The Mystery of the Pink Cupcake. What I mean to say is . . . it’s a satisfying start. You nod to yourself and think “That’s the ticket!” and flip rapidly to the next page.

I’m dashed if I can think up an equally fruity intro for my own tale. I suppose it would help if somepony had kicked the bucket, but since all players survived, instead I find myself dithering about where to begin.

I suppose it’s all thanks to Bingo, really. Leave it to Bingo to mistake a cue ball for an orange during a rousing Drones Club food fight.

“I say, Birdy! Birdy, are you all right?” He waved a hoof in front of my face as a few of the fellows helped me to my hooves. “Awfully sorry.”

“Ah... quite... quite all right.” I accepted apologies from the three of him and rubbed my head, checking for any indentations. “I’m fine, I think. My head feels like a herd of elephants just trampled over it, but there doesn’t seem to be any permanent—”

“Terrific! I say, old bean, could you lend me twenty bits or so?”

A babble of voices broke out. Bingo began to explain the run of bad luck he’d had with the bookies, Barmy broke in with a ramble about an aunt who’d nearly been run over on a racetrack, and Gussie began very earnestly talking about newts because that’s all the chap ever does talk about. And suddenly I felt that I’d had it up to the gills with the club and needed a bit of peace and quiet.

So with ears still ringing, I staggered homeward from the Drones at much earlier than my usual hour. And that’s how I happened to see my valet, Adder, slinking up to a street vendor and selling him a good percentage of my socks.

Well, I mean to say... I like to think of myself as a generous employer but I couldn’t let that slide. Once a servant starts selling off your undergarments, what’s next?  I gave him the boot in a cold and haughty manner and within a few hours he’d cleared out of my Londun flat, leaving in his wake only an empty bedroom and, I would later find, a lack of silverware.

Frankly I was relieved to be rid of him. Socks aside, a black snake is a straight out creepy cutie mark for a servant, in my opinion. Whenever I got home I half-expected to find the fellow wearing a boa constrictor around his neck or some such. Half a drawer of socks (and all the silverware) was a small price to pay for peace of mind.

So it was due to Bingo, in a way, that the next day I was settled at home with my feet up, an ice pack on my head, and The Mystery of the Pink Cupcake opened to Chapter 3. Just as the killer was slipping a cobra into the room of Lord Coltington’s daughter, there came soft knock at the door.

“Who the blazes is that?” I muttered as I set the book aside, leaving Bonnie Coltington frozen on the page.

I answered the door and found a tallish earth pony on the other side, a blue-grey chappie with smooth black hair, white sleeve cuffs around his hooves, and a black and white tie-and-lapel ensemble around his neck.

“I was given to understand that you are in need of a valet, sir,” said he in a smooth, polished voice. “I was sent by the agency.”

“Oh, right-ho!” Those fellows at the referral office certainly didn’t let the grass grow under their hooves. “The name’s Rooster, Birdy Rooster. With a W in between,” I added as an afterthought.

“Greetings, Mr. Rooster. My name is Greaves.”

“Greaves?” My mind harkened back to my Uncle Pom’s armour collection  “Those are bits of armour that strap on the old corpus, aren’t they?”

“Precisely, sir. My father had the lofty ambition of having a general in the family.”

“But it wasn’t your ambition, eh?”

“Alas not, sir.”

“No alas about it whatsoever,” I said, feeling cheered. The last thing I wanted was some ex-army pony bellowing and saluting at me while I was trying to read the racing results. I glanced at his flank and was relieved to see that his symbol was a pair of white velvet evening gloves. A bit unusual, since ponies lack digits, but very servant-y. Not a snake or a rampaging badger or whatnot.

“Well, come in by all means,” I said genially.

He shimmered through the portal (quite a feat for an earth pony) and gravitated towards the kitchen with unerring aim. A few minutes later he emerged holding a drink on a small tray. “I noticed you’re suffering from a contusion on your forehead, sir. If you drink this, I think you’ll find it will neutralize any aches and pains.”

“I’m afraid I do have an egg on the old cranium,” I confessed, tipping the ice pack off. “All right, I’ll have a go.”  

I picked up the cup, emptied it in a gulp, and nearly doubled over. My stomach was galloping around my rib cage in protest as the liquid burned and kicked, and I was fairly sure my ears were issuing forth puffs of steam... but do you know, a minute later the pain in my head had disappeared like the melting winter snows and I felt most incredibly bucked, as though all was right in the world. I may have given the old heels a bit of a kick.

“What an amazing concoction, Greaves! You’re hired!”

“Thank you, sir.” His lip tilted slightly upwards, which I would soon learn to recognize as a smile. “Would mushroom quiche with rosemary biscuits be sufficient for lunch, sir? Unless you would rather dine at the club.”

“No, I think I’ll dine in today. That mushroom thing sounds just the ticket.”

“Very good, sir.” He paused. “I couldn’t help but notice, sir, a lack of silverware in the kitchen.”

I put two and two together and arrived at the correct sum. “Blast that snake-in-the-grass Adder, he stole the silver! Of all the bally nerve!”

“If you’d like, Mr. Rooster, I can pick up a new set at the silversmith’s.”

“No, no, Greaves, I’ll do it. I’ve got to go there anyway, to pick up a birthday present for my cousin Angel. You get on with lunch.”

“Very good, sir. I’m sure Mr. Sterling will have some suggestions appropriate for a gentlecolt of your position.”

“Oh, quite! Corking chap. Well, pip-pip, Greaves!” I breezed out the door.

Perhaps an hour later I returned, my saddle bags full of the fruits of victory.

“Luncheon is almost ready, sir. Did your excursion go well?” asked Greaves. He was setting the dining table, minus cutlery.

“Positively smashing, Greaves. That smith certainly knows his stuff.” I levitated the saddle bags onto the coffee table, levitating out a small jewelry box.

“Oh, very nice, sir,” he approved as I floated out a silver brooch. “I’m sure your cousin will be most pleased. And did you also purchase—”

“Ah, the silverware! Yes, well, I don’t want to boast, but I think I’ve rather outdone myself.”

“Oh... oh yes, sir?” Greaves didn’t actually step back as I levitated the box out, but he did lean aftwards. “Those are... from Mr. Sterling’s shop, sir?”

“Not exactly. I looked his stuff over, of course. Ye-es, the typical bland knives and forks. But then I spotted the most amazing display in the shop across the street. I was positively knocked off my hooves.”

“I am sorry to hear that, sir.”

“No, no, Greaves—it’s a figure of speech. As I was saying, there was this novelty shop across the street with THESE right in the window!” I set them on the mantle in proud display. “Only 50 bits, can you believe it?”

“In truth I cannot, sir.”

“Ping-Pong Thistledown and Bingo Skittle will be sick with envy when I invite them to dine!”

“I will endeavor to seat them near the washroom, sir.” Greaves tilted his head slightly, eyeing my new purchase first from one angle, then from another. “Will you be requiring a red rubber nose as well, sir?”

“A red rubber... What on earth would I need that for?”

“I presume that, having been invited to entertain at a small child’s birthday celebration, you will want to be fully garbed in the traditional clown ensemble before passing out these party favours.”

A thought struck me, so hard that I reeled from the blow. “Greaves... do you not like this silverware?”

“The cutlery is very... different, sir.” He gave the box another look, which one might call “pained.”

”Why do you dislike this silverware, Greaves?” I asked sternly. “Is it deficient in some way?”

“It’s really not my place to say, sir,” he answered in a tone that bally well DID say, if you know what I mean. “I’m sure there are many venues where purple utensils bedecked in glitter are entirely appropriate. But for a gentlecolt’s table, if I might suggest, a traditional Chantilly pattern cast in silver—”

“You are speaking absolute rot, Greaves.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Which is to say, utter poppycock.”

“Just as you say, sir.”

“I’ll have you know that the most vibrant violet stripe from a rainbow was used to attain this glad hue. And the so-called ‘glitter’ is—well, it’s actual glitter, I think.” I paused, having lost my train of thought. “This is fine silverware!” I reiterated. “The finest!”

“I’m sure you are correct, sir. Perhaps I should store it away for now, sir, for use during the holidays. I would not want it get worn out.”

I had a feeling if my new silver went into a cupboard, it would never see the light of day again. “Not at all, Greaves. Not at all. I am stepping out for the paper and upon my return I expect to see my new dinnerware ready to leap into action!”

“As you wish, sir,” I heard at my back as I stepped out the door.

I really didn’t want the paper so much as an excuse to pace about along the street a bit and snort derisively here and there, and give Greaves room to do his equivalent of pacing and snorting. No doubt he was smarting after losing our battle of wills. Such conflicts are inevitable when two strong personalities collide, but I was determined to keep my hoof down on the matter. First because I didn’t want to be the type of fellow who’s an absolute slave to his valet, second because that silverware was positively brill.

I could have dismissed him from his post, of course, but what could he actually do about my choice in silverware? “Nothing,” was the answer that sprang to mind. Soon he would learn that I was a pony of iron will and see the futility of airing his questionable taste in cutlery.

Besides, his mushroom quiche smelled positively mouth-watering and it’s hard to find a valet who can really cook. Yes, the best option was to establish firmly who was the master, thus allowing the household to settle into peaceful stability, et cetera and so forth.

After letting an appropriate amount of steam wisp away, so to speak, I returned home with a lighter tread.

“What-ho, Greaves,” I said, keeping my voice buoyant to show there were no hard feelings on the Rooster side of things. I’d forgotten to buy a newspaper, but such is life. “Is lunch ready?”

“It is, Mr. Rooster. Also, you received a telepathogram while you were out, sir.”

“I say, really?” Sure enough, on the little table by the door was a silver tray with a sealed envelope on it. “Well, I’m dashed.”

Telepathograms are a bit of a recent fad. Basically, a brace of unicorns talented in long distance telepathy got together for drinks to moan about how their specialized magic wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, since Aunt Butterscotch or Uncle Horseshoe were all around alarmed and displeased when their niece or nephew started chattering away in the noggins of their elders and betters whilst the latter were pruning flowers or in the bath.

Then they hit on a sterling idea—if these unicorns each moved to a different metropolis, they could bounce messages back and forth to each other while other ponies paid for the privilege of nearly instant communication between, say, Londun and Manehattan. They scribble down the incoming messages and then send runners to deliver them to the appropriate address in the recipient’s metro. Thus, the telepathogram.

They’re beastly expensive, of course, and they charge by the word and the line, so that instead of “Hello, can you make it to Manehattan next month? Hope to see you then. I can’t wait to see how little Glory has grown!” you are more likely to get a curt “Manehattan April, y/n?”, with little Glory excised completely.

Who did I know with enough moolah and ooph to send me such a message, I wondered. I turned over the envelope to see who had authored it.

“Good heavens!” I cried out. “Do you know who this is from?”

“Yes, sir. I could not help noticing the sender is a Duchess Agate Blueblood.”

“Also known as my Aunt Agate, who eats broken bottles and freely crushes nephews under her cloven hooves!”

Greaves cleared his throat. “I have observed Duchess Blueblood before and must confess I do not recall her hooves fitting that description, sir.”

“When you’ve viewed them from the underside as they grind down, Greaves, it is evident.” I gloomily opened the telepathogram. Scanning the lines, my heart sunk still lower. “This blighted aunt is arriving in Londun tomorrow and commands one Birdsong Rooster to provide her luncheon. Are you prepared to make a dish to sate an aunt’s unholy appetite, Greaves?”

“I will do my best, sir. Perhaps cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches with muffins and fresh fruit on the side.”

“Quite. Mind you, you should probably have some broken bottles on hand just in case.”

“I will keep that in mind, sir,” the fellow said, gliding back to the kitchen.

I sat down to dine, but the unhappy tidings of the telepathogram overwhelmed all else, even the realization that Greaves had hidden my silverware under a napkin folded into a sort of fabric rosette. So low were my spirits that this slight on my taste in forks and knives merely produced a slight shake of my head and a faint “tuh!”

After lunch (which was, I must say, superb) I tried to return to The Mystery of the Pink Cupcake, but the upcoming visit from the most formidable of my aunts kept looming in my mind. By the time the morrow arrived, I was almost eager to get this bally luncheon rolling so I could get it over with.

Aunt Agate arrived punctually at 11:30. Physically, the agéd a. is a pink unicorn piled with blue and lavender hair. In spirit, she is more like a cross between a cockatrice and a manticore, freezing equines with her stare before rending them apart for light recreation. Yet rather than being banished to the outer reaches of Equestria (and perhaps locked in a dungeon there for good measure) she lairs at her country estate, occasionally emerging to prowl Londun Town and terrorize the populace. On this day she sailed through my front door like a steamer ship intent on sinking any sailboats and bathers that crossed its path.

“What-ho, Aunt Agate!” I said, trying to make the best of things. “Nice round of weather we’re having, what?”

She fixed me with an expression so eagle-eyed that some poor sap of a griffon was probably wandering around weeping out of bloodied sockets. “Kindly do not talk nonsense, Birdsong.”

“Right-ho, Aunt Agate.”

“And regulate your speech. I did not come here to listen to the ghastly slang you and your do-nothing friends indulge in.”

“Right-h... Right, Aunt Agate.”

She seated herself at the table, snorting in a lady-like manner. “You’ve pawned your spoons to bet on some racing-pony, I suppose.”

“Er, no Auntie, they’re...” I looked down at the table and noted an utter lack of silverware. Dash it all. I mean to SAY, dash it ALL. “They’re being cleaned. You see—”

“Never mind about that.” She waved a dismissive pink hoof before fixing her eye on me over a cup of tea. “I have come here to give you a chance to redeem yourself.”

“Oh yes? What from?”

“For some time now I have despaired of you, Birdsong. You are nothing more than a parasprite living off the fat of society.”

“Oh, I say—”

“Kindly do not interrupt!” she growled, with a look that chap who had his liver eaten by eagles all the time would have found strikingly familiar. “I had hoped that you might in time distinguish yourself and regain the title stripped from my poor brother when he married a chorus-filly...” She closed her eyes for a few seconds, allowing me to roll my own. “But I can see this was a futile dream. Since you lack the gumption to improve yourself, you shall instead apply your admittedly feeble talents to help another, more deserving pony.”

“Oh really,” I said, and I will not deny a note of huffiness, not to say pique, entered my voice. “And who is this wonder-horse who needs my ‘admittedly feeble talents’?”

“Your cousin August has found himself,” the aunt heaved a sigh that made her jewelry tremble, “in an unfortunate situation.”

“Oh yes?” I said, not exactly abuzz with enthusiasm.

“Yes. He attended the Grand Galloping Gala and some seamstress girl was there making a scene. A gatecrasher, no doubt. Dear August unwisely tried to lend a helping hoof... I could have told him it’s a mistake getting involved with the lower classes.”

I was still fogged, and indicated as much. “The Grand Galloping Gala was a month ago. What does he need help with? Some decorations still strewn about the place, what?” I offered a light chuckle.

“Stop blithering. As I say, this filly made a scene and, most unfortunately, Princess Celestia witnessed it. The dear Princess is a most compassionate pony, Birdsong—”

“Oh, quite!”

“—but unfortunately this very nobility of spirit renders her vulnerable to fraudulence and deception by base sorts. Your job, Birdsong, is to travel to Canterlot and help the Princess appreciate the innumerable admirable qualities of your cousin August.”  

“But... how...”

“I leave the details to you.” The agéd aunt stood. “Do not fail me, Birdsong,” she said in a tone of subtle threat that would’ve left a gangster-pony agog with admiration.

“Right-ho,” I sighed, and Aunt Agate began lecturing yours truly on the evils of slang again.

Later, with the aunt headed off to stalk other victims, I staggered into the kitchen. “Greaves, you have pained me.”

“I am most sorry to hear that, sir.”

“I expressly told you that I wished to use that new purple silverware. Yet when Aunt Agate arrived, what did I espy on the table? Not a single fork, Greaves. Not one spoon or knife.”

“I took the liberty of omitting them, sir. I feared that Duchess Blueblood would not have the same exuberance of taste that you and your friends exhibit when it comes to flatware.”

“Possibly, Greaves, possibly,” I acknowledged.

“If I might remind you, sir, I also sought to provide foods readily eaten without utensils. Sandwiches, you will recall, and a fine selection of fruit, not to mention—”

I waved a hoof to silence him. “Well, yes. You did your best, I’m sure. And it’s true the aunt might have kicked. She does that. But in the future I expect to be consulted, Greaves.”

“Of course, sir. I am always most interested to hear your opinion.”

“Unfortunately, we have more to worry about than forks and knives. We must journey to the capitol city post haste.”

“Yes, sir. I could not help overhearing Duchess Blueblood’s plea for assistance.”

“Plea!” I snorted, and I did so sarcastically. “More like dire threat! But we must look on the bright side, Greaves. The closer to Canterlot, the further from the dreaded aunt.”

“Very true, sir. I will begin packing for the trip immediately. Do you propose to make the journey by boat or by air-chariot?”

Airiot was the faster option of course, but I said, “By boat, Greaves. We shall take the train to the port of Drover, with one brief stop along the way. Are you familiar with Twinkly Court?”

“The country estate of Duchess Dahlia and Duke Pomegranate Traverse, is it not?”

“It is indeed! Another of my auntly relatives. And uncle-ly, respectively. Also the abode of my cousin Angel, who, you will recall me mentioning, has a birthday coming up. We shall journey there, Greaves, a festively wrapped offering in hoof.” I nodded towards the brooch, currently vegetating on the mantle. “I refuse to plead the case of my odious cousin August whilst neglecting my favourite cousin Angel.”

“An admirable sentiment, sir,” Greaves said with that almost-smile. “I’m sure she will be most appreciative.”

“Birdy, you young ass, you should’ve told us you were coming,” Aunt Dahlia said, perched on the steps of Twinkly Manor. “Angel’s on a trip to Fence with some school chums.”

“Oh, blast it all... do you mean to say she’s entirely gone?”

“Well, you’re free to snoop around the corners searching for the spare limb or ear she might have dropped in her rush, but I’m inclined to say yes, she’s entirely gone. Oh, put away that pout and come inside, you young blot. Canapé’s just serving lunch.”  

She turned tail and trotted inside the manor house while I hurried to keep up. As I’ve given you a description of Aunt Agate, I suppose it’s only fair to sketch a quick picture of Dahlia Traverse, who is an aunt of another breed. An earth pony, to be exact, yellow with purple hair and a floral symbol of a species appropriate to her name. While Aunt Agate looms large as the stuff of nightmares, Aunt Dahlia is the kind of aunt a nephew can rely on for a helping hoof in a crunch. And vice versa, I should hope.

I regard her with affection, but make no mistake, she is an aunt to the core and therefore formidable when roused. She may not be the largest of ponies, but her eyes are exceptionally keen and she will run like billy-o, frothing at the mouth, if she sees somepony about to tread on her prize-winning flowers.

According to Aunt Dahlia, her swiftness of hoof and brain are due to the tending of this very flora. She competes with them, you see, at the annual Market Snodsbury country fair. “And the competition there is not for the faint of heart,” she once told me. Apparently the weak and frail are quickly winnowed out, weeping quietly as the pluckier competitors engage in whatever subtle campaigns of backstabbing, deceit, and sabotage are necessary to earn their roses and chrysanthemums the blue ribbon.

Over a superb luncheon (courtesy of Aunt Dahlia’s brilliant Fench chef, Canapé) I explained my destination to this aunt of mine.

“So you’re off to Canterlot, Birdy?” Aunt Dahlia said, passing the salt. “You delightful child. Go with an aunt’s blessing.”

Aunt Dahlia and I get along quite well, but I was nonetheless surprised by her enthusiasm for this trip of mine. “You seem quite excited at the prospect, dearest a.,” I ventured.

“It’s fortuitous, that’s all. The gods have finally looked down on us and smiled.”

“Have they really?” I cast a glance out the windows.

“Stop craning your neck around like a voyeur at a five-carriage pile up and listen to me, Birdy. You have noticed your Uncle Pom’s absence from this meal?”

“By jove, now that you mention it...”

Uncle Pomegranate and I have never exchanged much in the way of pleasantries—I will say “what-ho!” and he will respond by glowering and muttering about the trials of hosting ponies in the manor house. Sometimes, under his breath, he’ll calculate the expense they cause when taking hot baths. Although this luncheon was more peaceful than it would’ve been with him muttering into his soup about The Wretched State Of The World, I still felt a pang of concern for the old flesh-and-blood.

“I’ve never seen him miss one of Canapé’s meals,” I said. “Is he ill?”

“Not ill, but depressed.” Aunt Dahlia dabbed her mouth with a napkin held in a yellow hoof. “You know Sir Catkin Basket?”

“Er... no.”

“He’s a pony. Named Catkin Basket. Who was knighted, and therefore is a ‘sir’. Anyway, it’s all his fault.”

“What is?”

“That Pom is depressed, you ass. Do try to keep up, Birdy.”

“Well, what did this Basket blighter do, exactly?”

Aunt Dahlia laid down her napkin, looking across the table with a sort of grim smile. “I’ll tell you what he did. Sir Cat-skin Baseless broke Pom’s heart when he snatched up an ancient centurion helmet with perfectly preserved bristles for a pittance at auction. What did you say, Birdy?”

“I said ‘tchaw’! An expression of dismay on behalf of a fondly regarded uncle. Tell me more about this auction, it sounds like it came up a perfect cropper.”

“Between the way you mumble and the way you talk, it’s a wonder anypony can understand you. Yes, anyway, this auction. That rat Basket told Pom it was on Wednesday of last week, when in fact it was on Tuesday. Pom took the louse at his word and missed the whole thing.”

“Oh, I say, that’s low.”

“Ex-actly! It was a low, creeping, conniving act!”

“I take it Sir Catkin is also an ardent collector of armour and armaments?”

“Absolutely soppy about the stuff. Colts... I’ll never understand them.”

“I’m a colt and I’m not sure I understand this obsession with the tin cans of yesteryear either,” I said. “So Uncle Pom is sick at heart thinking of this objet de la guerre in the hooves of this fiend in equine form, is that it?”

“Completely correct. Some may say you have no brain, Birdy, but I’ve always said there was one rattling around in there somewhere.”

“Wait a minute now, who says—”

“I’ve been wondering all week how to lift Pom out of the dumps. And then you appeared on my doorstep, dear boy, my favourite nephew on his way to Canterlot.” She smiled.

“Yes... but how is that going to cheer up Uncle Pom? Do you want me to pick up a helmet from a shop or something?”

“Close, very close. “ The relative trotted over to one of the bookshelves looming ‘round the walls and brought back a thick volume that looked as though it deserved a cushy retirement for its many years of service. She flipped it open. “You see this, Birdy?”

I blinked down at a page featuring a grubby drawing of a rectangle with various lions, birds, forests, et cetera, prancing around on it. “Some kind of painting?”

“Not a painting, you ignorant savage. It’s a drawing of the famous Border Blanket. Centuries ago the elite guards of Equestria wore them to prevent their armour from chafing in unmentionable places. This particular style of blanket was worn by a small band of ponies who guarded the farthest borders of Equestria. They were said to be the best of the best, the bravest, most skilled, and most loyal of soldiers.”

She snapped the book shut. “Well, you know how that always ends. They were all slaughtered at some obscure mountain pass. Legend has it that the enemy left one pony alive so he could return to Equestria to bear witness to the carnage, and the one remaining blanket still in the hooves of ponykind is supposedly his.”

“How gruesome! I assume someone else swooped in and saved Equestria?”

“Who cares? Not me and, more to the point, not Pom. What matters, Birdy, is that there’s only one of this blanket anywhere, and years ago Sir Catkin Basket let it slip through his hooves.”

“Oh yes?”

“Yes. Not knowing its worth, some merchant had bundled it up with a lot of old rugs. The miserable Basket spied it and rubbed his hooves together with foul glee, thinking he would get this precious artifact for few measly bits. He was eager to cheat the honest merchant—”

“Who had not noticed the whole hoof-rubbing and cackling on display, I take it.”

“Hush. As I say, he swooped in to buy it when who should stumble past?”

“Uncle Pom?”

“No. The curator of the Royal Museum in Canterlot. She took one look at this piece of fabric and said, ‘Ho!’ (or words to that effect), ‘Ho! This is the Border Blanket or I’m a two-headed spider monkey!’”

“Which, presumably, she wasn’t.”

“Indeed she was not. She dumped a hefty load of bits into the carpeteer’s hooves and whisked the blanket away to the safe confines of the Royal Museum.”

“Leaving Sir Basket empty-hooved?”

“And crushed, Birdy, absolutely crushed.”

“Well, I thank you for the story, dearest a., but I’m still fogged about how this blunder from years past is supposed to help Uncle Pom’s mental health in the here and now. Are you proposing to write up the story and stick it under his nose to remind him of his enemy’s frailty? Perhaps with a snappy picture of his foe weeping in front of the blanket?”

“Nooo, I’m not going to give him a picture of it.” Aunt Dahlia smiled widely. “I’m going to give him the real thing.”

“You’re what?”

“And you, Birdy, are going to get it for me.”

Next chapter:  On to Canterlot!

Chapter 2: Canterlot, City of a Thousand Something-or-Others

Chapter 2:  Canterlot, City of a Thousand Something-or-Others

“You can’t be serious!”

“Do I look serious, Birdy?”

As her mouth was a straight line and her eyebrows lowered, admittedly she did. “But Aunt Dahlia, it’s... it’s ridiculous. Laughable!” I gave a derisive laugh to illustrate this point.

“Stop that noise immediately, you insufferable young donkey. Is this the gratitude with which you repay years of hospitality at Twinkly Court?”

“I am always glad to express my thanks, Aunt Dahlia, but not by engaging in petty larceny!”

“How you do exaggerate, Birdy. I blame those drama-ladened musical plays you’re so fond of.”

“I will not do it! I simply will not!”

Aunt Dahlia gave me a look like a manticore about to charge. “Then you will never again darken my doorstep, young Birdsong.”

“Oh, come now!”

“No, I mean it. The familial bonds will be irreparably broken if you do not take this simple task in hoof.”

I tried throwing a jot of reason at her. “How do you think the Princess, not to mention the Royal Guard, will take to me waltzing into the Royal Museum and removing a priceless artifact?”

“Don’t get caught, it’s as simple as that. You’re always reading those silly mystery novels, why don’t you take some lessons from them?”

“But—”

“Your Uncle Pom will be so thrilled. You may well be saving him from an early grave,” she said, herding me towards the door.

“Look here—”

“Good, it’s settled then.” She knocked me outside with a headbutt to the ribs that nearly sent me nosediving down the stone steps. “Until we meet again, nephew of mine. Oh, and I’ll pass the present along to Angel when she jaunts back from Fence. Quite nice of you, remembering her birthday. Now go off and fetch that blanket.” Her smile suddenly evaporated. “Or return empty-hooved and suffer an aunt’s curse.”

The door slammed shut.

The walk back to the train station was short but it took me some time to get there, dazed as I was by this recent flurry of aunt. Greaves was waiting there with the luggage.

“Your arrival is well timed, Mr. Rooster. The connecting train to Drover arrives in ten minutes.” He paused as he looked at me, his impassive face hinting at concern. “I trust you had a pleasant meeting with your cousin?”

I turned my eyes to him and gave a sort of hollow laugh. This actually sent a mild furrow rippling between his brows.

“Are you unwell, sir? You look somewhat out of sorts.”

“Aunts, Greaves,” I intoned in a haunted voice. “Aunts. Some say there are good aunts and bad aunts, but they are all waiting for the right moment to bite your head off. Some are merely more obvious about it than others.”

“Sir?” He raised an eyebrow a fraction.

“Tell me, Greaves. Would you say it is a good idea to pinch an objet d’arte right out of the Royal Museum in Canterlot?”

“Mm, I would say not, sir. It would be a course fraught with peril. I would advise against it.”

“Well, clearly you are not my Aunt Dahlia. She unveiled this clunker of an idea in front of me with the air of one producing a dove out of a hat to please a crowd of foals.” I explained, in short order, the business with Uncle Pom, Sir Basket, and the rare Border Blanket.

“Perhaps she will find some other solution to Duke Pomegranate’s ennui while you are away, sir.”

“One can hope,” I sighed. “One can hope.” All during the ride to Drover the thought plagued me, but when I stepped off the train I began to feel a bit better. Alas, this feeling was short-lived. Almost as soon as I transferred self to the boat, my stomach got the jimjams and began heaving about.

“Urrrrrgh,” I moaned, hanging my head over the railing and praying for death.

“Drink this, sir,” Greaves murmured, producing a cup of some mysterious potion. As my stomach miraculously stopped its protests, I resolved to keep him in my service if at all possible. If this meant opening his mind to the validity of purple cutlery, I would somehow accomplish just that.

I will gloss over the remaining, uneventful days at sea. At last we reached the mainland and boarded a crowded airiot that had at least a half-dozen hefty pegasi harnessed in the traces. What with Canterlot perching in the mountains, pegasus-powered transport is by far the fastest way to get there. Most of the city is built into a steep valley, but the part you notice from the air is the castle, clinging to the side of the peak with its tall white towers glistening in the sun—quite the jolly sight, I’ve always thought, and one to lift the spirits.

“Shall I find a suitable hotel, sir?” asked Greaves as we departed the airiot.

“Oh, no need for that. We’ll bunk in the castle itself. Plenty of guest rooms in the old thing,” I assured him.

“Very good, sir,” said he as he followed with the luggage balanced on his back.

As I said, the castle’s architect must have had a distinct appreciation for the vertical; from a distance it rather reminds one of those stalagma-thingies you find in caves. (The kind that stick up). But when you get up close, it’s a mass of halls and doorways and you have to keep your eyes open so as not to trip over the multitudes of grey unicorn guards and white pegasus guards marching about the place. It gets a bit annoying at times, but I suppose they’re obliged to earn their keep somehow.

“The throne room, Greaves,” I indicated, pausing in a doorway with more than the usual number of guards massed by it, all staring determinedly at nothing in particular. A red carpet led up to the throne in question, which was so far away that the Princess looked like a distant white blob conjoined to a pastel blob. It was a good job the dais was so high or else the huge queue of ponies waiting to chat with her would’ve blocked her entirely from view.

“Despite the injunctions of my Aunt Agate, this does not seem like the right time to talk to her,” I said.

“No, sir.”

“It would be a bit distracting if I were to jaunt in and say, ‘What-ho! Sorry to interrupt this chatter about farms failing and diplomatic ties and whatnot, but I want to tell one and all what a corking fellow my cousin August is!’”

“I quite agree, sir.”

“Later, Greaves, after we have settled in and unpacked, we can—oh, hullo!”

This last remark was aimed not at Greaves, but at a hitherto unknown colt I found myself face to face with upon turning around. He was a grey earth pony with dark green hair and a pocket watch cutie mark. Not only was he wearing a rather somber tie, but he also had a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles pinching the bridge of his nose.

“If you are here to petition Princess Celestia, the line is over there,” this newcomer pointed, not returning my greeting and in fact aiming rather suspicious looks at myself and Greaves.

“Actually, we were just about to nose around the palace for Sprinkles Featherdown. Have you seen her? She’s a pegasus mare of advanced age with a lavender coat, rather grey hair, and a symbol of a flock of—”

“I know what she looks like.”

“Oh, good,” I said. I beamed at him. He stared back at me over his spectacles. The conversation had flattened out so I tried to pump some life back into it. “She’s the Royal... Well, the Royal Something-Or-Other. The long and short of it is that when a room is needed, Sprinkles always comes through with the goods. The goods being, in this case, a cushy suite with a sitting room and—”

“Ms. Featherdown will not be providing you with a room.”

“Say again?”

“She has retired.”

“Oh, I see! Still, they must have heaved the job over to somepony else when she left.”

“They did. To me, Pinstripe Tock, the Royal Organizator.”

“Oh, so you’re the chap we need to speak to! What luck running into you. Pinstripe, is it? I’m Birdy Rooster. As you may have guessed, I’m in need of an HQ while in Canterlot, and a guest suite would be just the ticket.”

“Hmmm. How many in your party?”

“Just two, myself and my valet here.”

He fished a notebook out of the thinnish sort of saddlebag he was wearing, which displayed notepads, quills, and pencils sticking out of the pockets in neatly ordered rows. “For two. Hmm, I think that can be arranged. For how long?”

I refrained from pointing out it should jolly well be a snap to arrange because I happened to know the palace was simply awash with guest rooms. I used to play hide and seek in them as a foal until I got stuck in a dumbwaiter for two days, after which the game lost its luster.  

But I gave this fellow the benefit of the doubt, being new to the job and whatnot, and simply said, “Oh, not long, not long. I’m just going to pop in and chat with Great-Aunt Celly a few times, you know. Catch up, as it were.”

“‘Great-Aunt Celly’?” He set his pencil down on the notebook and eyeballed me. “Are you by some chance referring to Princess Celestia?”

“That’s right. I know, I know, technically there should be a lot more ‘Greats’ in there than the one, but it sounds rather ridic. saying ‘Great-Great-Great-Great-Great’—”

“Princess Celestia,” Tock said, louder than strictly necessary, “is a very busy pony.”

“Oh, quite. Raising the sun and all that. Not to worry, I’m never up at dawn anyway.”

“She has many issues of diplomacy and governance to attend to.”

“Jolly good. Can’t wait to talk about them over tea and biscuits tomorrow.”

“Mr. Rooster.”

“What-ho?”

“You are not going to see Princess Celestia tomorrow.”

“I’m not?”

“You’re not.”

“Oh, what bad luck. Well, perhaps the day after tomorrow we can—”

“Nor the day after tomorrow.”

“Next week maybe we could—”

“Nor next week.”

I paused. Tock paused. Greaves hadn’t spoken during this little dialogue so his silence didn’t technically constitute a pause.

After a few moments of discomfort where everypony waited for somepony else to kick the conversation back into play, Greaves cleared his throat. “When would Mr. Rooster be able to meet with Princess Celestia? It is really a most pressing matter.”

Tock took a different notebook, a small black one, out of his saddle-side organizer and skittered through the pages. “I can pencil you in five weeks from Monday, from 10:30 to noon.”

“Oh, I say! Five weeks!”

“And there’s a fifteen minute opening two weeks after that,” Tock continued, scribbling something down. “If you’d like a second meeting.”

“Nothing sooner than that? Really?”

“Nothing at all.” He snapped the book shut with such finality that I saw it would be fruitless to try to reason with him. Clearly he was one of those chaps who believes that noting an upcoming event in a day planner is the equivalent of zipping into the future and forcing said event to take place on that date, at that time... and woe betide the pony who lets it run ten minutes over or under schedule.

“As for a room,” he continued, “I can provide you with—”

Here I interrupted. I was not about to trust the sense of hospitality of a fellow who snapped notebooks open and shut like that. “I’d like that suite overlooking the garden with the stone lions,” I said in a firm voice.

This appeared to throw Tock off his script. His eyes bugged slightly. “What?”

“That one on the fourth floor with two bedrooms, a sitting room, and a piano.”

He took out a notebook rather shakily, struggling to find something to quantify. “What room number is it?”

“No idea, my dear chap. But it’s part of the west tower, that sort of bulgy circular part.”

“Well, no one is using any of the tower rooms on the fourth floor, so I suppose that would be acceptable,” he said in a pained voice. “IF you provide me with the room number as soon as possible.”

“Quite, quite!” I waved a hoof.

“All right. Get me the room number and I will reserve the room for your use for eight weeks. Now if you gentlecolts will excuse me...” Off he went, trotting away with a gait like a metronome.

And off I traipsed, followed by Greaves (who glided along rather than traipsing or trotting) to settle into my temporary home sweet home.

“This whole trip is a rather rum deal, Greaves,” I opined as I walked into the suite.

“Indeed, sir.”

“Still, things could be worse. Here I am, settled in one of the most spiffing rooms in the castle.”

“A cheering thought, sir.” Greaves pulled back a curtain, revealing a flowered garden several storeys below us. “I take it you are not unfamiliar with the layout of the castle?”

“Oh yes, I used to know the whole place top to bottom. I haven’t visited in quite some time, but of course a castle tends to stay the same over the years. No one is likely to knock out these hefty stone walls for a bit of light remodeling, what?”

“Very true, sir.”

I walked over to take a survey of the view, watching ponies below wander about the paths singly or in pairs. “Yes, despite this visit being kicked off by the unholy powers of aunts, I am determined to look on this as a holiday. Still, I suppose I ought to at least rest the old eyeballs on this Border Blanket that Aunt Dahlia was nattering on about. To the Royal Museum, Greaves!”

The Royal Museum was adjacent to the castle and built along the same lines, designed by ponies who felt that a building couldn’t have too much distance between the roof and the ground. It’s simply riddled with towers and turrets, and although this looks most striking from the outside, after a chap drags his hooves up approximately three million marble stairs, he starts to wonder why he didn’t just breeze into the gift shop by the entrance and buy postcards of all the exhibits. The armour display was, naturally, nearly at the top of the building.

I don’t think I’m particularly out of shape—I can keep up in any game of tennis or cricket—but still I was puffing as I worked my way up the last spiraling staircase. Even Greaves was oiling up it at a slower than usual pace when it came down to the final stretch. Unfortunately as I topped the staircase, my hind hoof caught on the top stair and I stumbled forward, straight into one of the Royal Guards.

“Watch it,” growled he, a grey unicorn in that gold plated armour they all wear. A matching guard stood beside him, with the exact same white and grey colour scheme and armour. But as luck would have it, I had knocked into the grumpier of the two.

As I tossed out an apology and pulled myself to my hooves, the second guard gave me a quite cheerful smile. “It’s a long climb, isn’t it?” he said.

”Seeker! You’re not supposed to talk,” hissed the other from the corner of his mouth.

”You talked,” Seeker hissed back.

”That was different.”

I nipped past them without further delay. Mannequins gussied up in armour were set all over the exhibit hall. Since they were all wearing different styles from different eras, they effect they gave en masse was not so much that of an army as of a group of ponies who had said to one another, “I say, how about a fancy dress party? Be sure to wear your plumed helmet, they’re all the rage this season!” Scattered among these rows of mismatched soldiers were glass cases containing weapons or medals or such.

“Well, there it is, Greaves.” I looked down into a glass case squeezed between two armoured mannequins. The blanket was, if anything, even grubbier and more threadbare than the version drawn in Aunt Dahlia’s book. “To think that this mere scrap of fabric is what sets Sir Basket and Uncle Pom’s eyes alight.”

“The whims of collectors are very mysterious, sir.”

“Truer words were never spoken. I cannot help but notice, Greaves,” I said in a lower voice, “that the museum is crawling with guards. Guards at every doorway, guards on every floor.”

“An accurate assessment, sir. I was just about to comment on the number and proximity of guard-ponies myself.”

“Well, as far as I’m concerned my nephewly obligations can go hang themselves if Aunt Dahlia expects them to include... you know what.” I glanced at the doorway where the pair of grey unicorns were stationed.

“I think your feelings on the matter are most wise, sir. It is best not to get involved in such things.”

“I’ll send her a letter explaining the sitch.” I strolled to the door, preparing for the descent down innumerable stairs. “Then she’ll have to see reason, won’t she?” I confess a note of doubt entered my voice.

By the time we hit ground level, my legs felt more like noodles than anything else. I sent Greaves off to buy some stamps and stationary while I hobbled towards the castle.

When I reached the park flanking the castle, I spotted a mint green unicorn with similarly hued hair sitting on a bench.  Only one pony in Equestria could manage a boneless posture like that, sitting upright with her back against the bench but nonetheless slumping like a sack of potatoes.

“I say!  Plinker, is it really you?”

She looked, her eyes wide with surprise. “Birdy? Birdy Rooster? What are you doing here?”

“Just taking a jaunt. Plinker Heartsong, well well well. It’s been a while, what?”

“A million years! Well, it seems that way, anyway.” She smiled. “So what are you doing in Canterlot, Birdy? Did you move here?”

“Oh, nothing like that. I’m just here visiting family, as it were. But what about you, Plinker?  What brings you here?”

“To Canterlot, or to the park?”

“Either one. You don't live here, do you?”

“I do now. A few years ago Mother and Father moved the whole family out to Canterlot.” Her ears drooped a bit as she made this admission.

“What’s wrong? Not liking the capital metrop.?”

“Oh, the city is fine.” She slumped even further down the bench, looking to be in danger of melting away altogether. “I don’t have any problems with the city.  It’s just...” She let loose a sigh.

A frown crossed the Rooster countenance. Clearly all was not well. “Come on, old chum. Unburden your saddlebags to a sympathetic ear.”

She freed a sigh even heftier than the previous one. “Well, to tell you the truth—”

“Lyra, THERE you are!”

“Mother!” Plinker aimed a strained smile towards an incoming green and pink unicorn of elegant dress and matronly build.

“I have been looking everywhere for you,” said this new arrival, whom I gathered was Ma Heartsong, as she marched over. She aimed a frown at her daughter. “What have I told you about sitting like that, Lyra? Such abysmal posture!”

With a distinct air of mutiny about her, Plinker slid off the bench and stood on her own four feet. “There. Happy, Mother?”

The older unicorn swept this question aside. “Duke Marbles is walking by the fountain right now. Alone,” she added, eyebrows speeding up and down as though they were trying to take wing.

“Good for him. Yay.”

“The fountain is surrounded by roses and weeping willows—very romantic,” Ma Heartsong continued.

Plinker turned to me with a sweet smile on her face. “I don’t think you’ve met Duke Marbles, have you?  He’s about three times my age, has false teeth, and ponies say that his first name is ‘Lost His.’”

“Oh Lyra,” sniffed Ma. “I’m sure the rumors that he believes he’s a canary are grossly exaggerated.” She turned and targeted me with her gaze, looking me up and down with the air of a tiger debating if a deer is too small to be worth eating. “And who is this?” she asked in a suspicious tone that suggested she was afraid of the answer.

“What-ho, what-ho, what-ho!” I admit I rather garbled it out; the atmosphere between Plinker and her mother was what you might call “highly charged” and it made me jumpy. Sparks hadn’t actually started shooting out from their eyes yet, but if they did I was afraid I’d be caught in the crossfire. “Birdy’s the name!”

“Birdy.” Ma Heartsong repeated my name in a rather unnecessary tone of disbelief.

Plinker jumped in. “A-hem! Mother, this is Birdsong Rooster. He’s here visiting family.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Spot on. My aunt asked me to lend a hoof to my cousin August, so I—”

Ma Heartsong gasped. “Not August Blueblood!   Prince Blueblood has a cousin?”

Well, I’m never thrilled to be reduced to “Prince Blueblood’s cousin,” but there’s no doubt the info worked some serious magic in this case.  In a trice the mother’s suspicious expression melted away, leaving behind a simpering, honeyed gaze.

“Ohhhh, Prince Blueblood’s cousin, of COURSE. Oh, how EXCITING!  Prince Birdsong, it’s so wonderful to make your acquaintance! I am Dame Flowerburst Heartsong.” She bowed so low her nose nearly hit the ground.

“Actually, Dame Heartsong, I’m not a...”

“Lyra, why didn’t you tell me you’d met such a lovely, noble young colt? You must invite him over to dinner sometime.”

“I met Birdy at Wheaton, Mother. You know, when I was there on the music scholarship you didn’t want me to accept because studying music was ‘a waste of time’?”

“Well, obviously I was mistaken. I would’ve thought differently if I’d known you’d be rubbing elbows with this caliber of pony. I’m sure Wheaton must be the highest quality school if you were there, Prince Birdsong. I’m so honoured my dear little Lyra was able to attend.”

“Ah ha ha, actually I’m not a...” Just then ‘dear little Lyra’ aimed a narrow look at me that indicated I jolly well WAS a prince for the remainder of the conversation, so I amended my protest into: “I’m not a bit surprised she got in. Brilliant pony, Plinker is.”

“Plinker?” Dame Heartsong asked with a vague smile.

“Lyra, I mean,” I corrected myself. “We used to call her Stinker Plinker because of the time she smuggled a skunk into the—” Plinker kicked me. “Yes, anyway, she’s a fine member of the old alma mater. This one time...” I chuckled at the memory. “This one time we—which is to say Plinker, Pongo Thistledown, Lala Blossom, and myself—snuck into Professor Query’s classroom the night before final exams and replaced all the ink on the desks with the disappearing variety. What a laugh we had, eh Plink?  The answers all disappeared, of course, and the professor was so furious he swore if he ever found out who did it he’d expel—”

“Ha ha, yes, thank you, Birdy!" Plinker interrupted. "Those princes, huh? What kidders!”

“Y-yes,” Ma Heartsong agreed. For some reason she looked a little jiggered, but she recovered quickly and smiled. “I’m sorry I disturbed you, Lyra. You stay here and get to know the prince better.” She didn’t actually wink at her daughter, but certainly left the impression that her eye was dying to roll down the curtain.

As her mother trotted away, Lyra slapped a hoof to her forehead. “Arrrrgh.”

“Plinker, old sport,” I ventured. “Would I be wrong in guessing you’re having family problems?”

“You would be completely and one hundred percent right, Birdy,” groaned Plinker. “It all started when I got back from university. Suddenly Mother and Father announced they were moving to Canterlot, permanently. Well, okay, whatever. It wasn’t until we moved here that I realized what they really wanted.”

“Which is?”

“Didn’t you see my mother’s face when you said you were related to Prince Blueblood?  Mother and Father are part of the knighthood, but that’s not enough for them. They don’t want to be on the bottom rung of the Council of Peers. Father’s been hoarding money for ages so they can grease the right hooves and buy their way up, but...”

“But it would be much cheaper if someone, like perhaps an eligible unicorn filly, married her way up the rungs?”

She grimaced. “Exactly.”

“But, I say. Even if you did marry a prince, there’s nothing to say that your parents would leapfrog up in rank. My cousin August clawed his way up to princehood a few years ago, but his mother is still a mere duchess (if I dare apply that adjective to Aunt Agate). Maybe if you told your parents—”

“Oh, I’ve tried that angle, believe me. But they think they have a better chance with somepony, anypony, in the family making it to a more ‘elevated station’, as they put it. To magically lower down a ladder for them to climb up, I guess. They’d be dancing with glee if the family dog  became a lady or duchess, let alone their daughter. They’re driving me CRAZY!” This time she slapped both hooves to her face as she sat back sharply on her hindquarters.

“There, there, old thing.” I patted her shoulder.

“And the worst part of it is...” She hesitated.

“Is what?” I asked after a stretch of silence, when it looked like no more info would be forthcoming.

“Birdy, can I trust you? Really trust you?”

“Plinker! I am hurt that you even have to ask. We Roosters are the most trustworthy of—”

“Oh Birdy, you’re so ridiculous,” she laughed. “Come on.”

“Come on? Come on where?”

“To where I’m taking you.”

“Actually, my legs aren’t really feeling in tiptop—”

“Come ON,” she called over her shoulder.

“Oh, dash it all... Right-ho!”

Next chapter:  Bon Bon!

Chapter 3: Fillies, Fiancees, and Fiances

Chapter 3:  Fillies, Fiancées, and Fiancés

As mentioned before, my legs were complaining after the long trek up and down several million steps in the Royal Museum. Now, as I followed Plinker down the street and into the marketplace, they were threatening mutiny. I gamely weaved through the teeming masses anyway, doing my best to keep up with her.

“Plinker, old friend. I can’t help but wonder where we’re going.”

The mint green unicorn puckered her brow. “Birdy,” she said finally, “I’m engaged.”

“Engaged? As in ‘let me not to the marriage of true minds admit whats-its’? Well, well, WELL, congratulations! This is spiffing news!”

“No, it’s not. I mean, it is, but it’s more complicated than that.” She sighed and gestured to a bench parked along the side of the boulevard. When we were planted on it, she said, “It’s my parents that are the problem. As usual. They’ll never approve.”

“Because of their scheme that you should marry ‘upward’, so to speak?”

“Pretty much.”

“Point out that the fellow might get inducted into the Council of Peers’ merry ranks any day now. Problem solved.”

“It’s not a fellow, it’s a filly.”

“Oh! Well, the principle of my previous statement stands.”

“It’s a nice thought, but there’s no way, Birdy. It takes money and connections to get into the Council and she hasn’t got either.”

“Hmmm, that does make things tricky.” I strained the grey matter. Vaulting Plinker’s fillyfriend into the upper ranks of the peers was the surest way to secure her parents’ blessing, but that looked like an uphill battle. Still, I saw a glimmer of hope. “Sometimes they do open the doors for impoverished types, Plink. Knighting poor but brilliant artists is practically their favourite past time, especially since knights aren’t due an allowance. Perhaps if your fiancée writes a particularly genius-ladened opera...”

“She’s not a poor but brilliant artist. She’s a waitress,” she said gloomily.

“Oh. Hmm.”  Suddenly the uphill battle turned into the impossibly steep slope that one chap continuously rolls boulders up. The Council of Peers has never been known for knighting waitresses, poor or otherwise, and on occasion they have actually booted out members who married beneath their station. This very thing happened to my father when he married a chorus-filly from a musical comedy, despite the fact that he was from the noble and laurelled House of Rooster.

“What am I going to do?” Plinker sighed. “I don’t care one whit about titles and pedigree, honestly I don’t, but I don’t want my parents to disown me! And I’m sure they’ll be so rude to Bon Bon if I tell them. What if they treat her so badly she doesn’t even want to marry me? What if—”

“I take it this Bon Bon is the filly of your heart?”

“That’s right, Birdy. And there she is.” To my surprise, Plinker pointed through the window of the cafe behind us. A sign over the door identified it as the Satin Slipper Sweet Shoppe, which the architect had whimsically modeled after a giant, lacy shoe.

I moved to the take-out window, which was currently free of staff, and peered in.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Plinker sighed. “I brought you here so you could see her in person.”

I refrained from saying that she might have shown me a photograph in the park and let me to rest my poor legs. “Very nice! Quite a lovely filly.”

“You aren’t even looking at her, you dolt! She’s the earth pony.”

“Oh, right. The blue one?”

“No.”

“The purple one?”

“NO! How could you even think it would be one of them? She’s the one who’s radiantly beautiful!” Although it was not the most lady-like behavior she might have exhibited, Plinker put me in a headlock and wrenched my head towards a cream coloured filly with pink and navy blue hair.

“Extremely radiant,” I wheezed. “Absolutely topping.”

“Oh, I know!” she giggled, letting go of me to clap her hooves together. “I’m the luckiest filly in the world... if only I can figure out what to do about my parents. Oh, she’s seen us. Bon Bon!” Plinker waved.

The (radiant) earth pony Bon Bon tucked her notepad into her apron pocket and moved over to the open service window. “Hello, Lyra,” she blushed.

“Hello, Bon Bon,” Plinker returned, gazing deeply into her eyes.

“You... you look beautiful today.”

“You look more beautiful.”

“No, you look more beautiful...”

This might have gone on all day, but just then I noticed a peculiar reflection in the shop’s windows and turned around to eyeball the bushes. “I say, Plinker, isn’t that your mother?”

“What?!” she gasped, trading in her glazed look of love for a glazed look of terror.

“Over there, in the bushes.” I squinted. “I think she’s got opera glasses or binoculars or something.”

“She’s following me AGAIN?” she groaned. “Quick, Bon Bon! Grab a box of candy, any candy! We’ve got to make her think I’m just here to buy sweets!”

“I’m on it!” Bon Bon said firmly. “I’ll get you a box of our chocolate covered cherries, or maybe an assortment of caramels that are hoof-crafted by the finest—”

“Go, go, go!” Plinker said frantically.

“Eep!” Off Bon Bon went.

“Argh, she does this all the time!”

“Bon Bon?”

“No, my mother! Sneaking around. Following me. Spying on me. I figured she’d leave me alone for a couple hours if she thought you were royalty, but nooo. I feel like I’m in a cheap spy thriller! And if she finds out about me and Bon Bon... Well, there’s a right way and a wrong way to break the news that you’re marrying a waitress, and I’m pretty sure that would be the wrong way.”

At this juncture Bon Bon popped back into the window. “Here, Lyra, I got the mixed assortment of truffles for you.”

“The perfect choice,” Plinker breathed, her expression besotted once more.

“Nothing is too perfect... for you.”

“Ah, good. Here you go.” I glanced at the price emblazoned on the box and pushed forward the appropriate number of bits, hoping to snap the fillies out of their romantic reverie. It worked, as Bon Bon looked down at the coins on the counter.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. It’s on the house, Mister... ”

“Birdy. We were in school together,” Plinker supplied. “I wish I could have lunch with you, Bon Bon, but my mother...” Both fillies sighed heftily and got that lovelorn look again.

“I understand, Lyra,” Bon Bon said with what I believe a novel would call a brave, enduring look. “Come visit after you’ve thrown her off the scent, okay?”

“I promise.” Plinker leaned forward a bit like she wanted to swoop in for a kiss, but apparently realized this would not exactly be the best way to keep up the subterfuge with Ma Heartsong. Instead she merely issued another sigh before turning away from the sweet shop.

I tossed out a “Pleased to make your acquaintance” to Bon Bon before catching up with Plinker, levitating the box of candy along with me.

“I say, don’t forget your purchases,” I said.

“You paid for it,” she pointed out, but nevertheless took hold of the box and balanced it on her back. “Look around real casually and see if my mother’s still watching, will you, Birdy?”

I glanced to the left and caught a telltale flash of pink hair and glint of opera glasses from behind a tree. “’Fraid you’re still under surveillance from the master spy.”

“I thought so. She doesn’t give up easily.” Plinker frowned as we walked along. “Well, I’m going to try to shake her off. Oh, but first tell me where you’re staying! We can catch up later.”

“In the castle.” I explained my room’s proximity to the western garden, the stone lions, and the bulgy round turret thing.

Her brow wrinkled. “I don’t know if I can find that.”

“Well, it’s right above that fountain in the garden. Just chuck pebbles at the fourth floor window.”

“Oh Birdy,” she laughed and shook her head. “Fine. But you’ve got to break me out of the dungeon if I get arrested for throwing rocks at the palace. Bye for now!”

“Tinkerty-tonk!”

“What a day, Greaves, what a day,” I sighed as I returned to the suite and wandered into my room.

He looked up from hanging suits in the wardrobe. “Did you lose your way, sir? You were out a considerable length of time.”

“I ran into an old school chum,” I explained. “She is one half of a romantic relationship, Greaves, and it is not going smoothly. Or rather, the relationship with her romantic half is, but her relationship with her parents isn’t. Due to the aforementioned romance.”

“The course of true love never did run smooth, sir.”

“Aptly put! Did you come up with that just now?”

“It is from The Bard, sir. Would your friend’s difficulty be due to a difference of station between herself and the object of her affections?”

“As a matter of fact it is! Plinker Heartsong, that being my friend, is affianced to a waitress. How on earth did guess?”

“Such is often the case, sir. I take it that because of this Miss Heartsong’s parents are not amenable to the match?”

“Ah, they don’t know about it yet, but they’ll froth like rabid Diamond Dogs once they do. They’re not like me, Greaves. I know that ‘the rank is but the five-cent stamp.’”

“The guinea stamp, I think you’ll find, sir. The poet was referring to the manner in which raw gold is transformed into coinage by stamping it with—”

“Never mind about poets, Greaves.”

“No, sir.”

“This is not the moment for poets. This is the moment for action!”

“Indeed, sir?”

“Indeed. Nothing gives us Roosters the pip, Greaves, like seeing two loving hearts kept apart. Plinker’s mother, on the other hand, does not give a fig about loving hearts as long as her daughter marries no less than a lord—or a lady, one supposes. You should have seen the predatory gleam in her maternal eyes when she thought I was a prince.”

“Indeed, sir? Did you correct her misconception?”

“Hm? Oh... no. Plinker gave me the stink eye, thinking perhaps her maternal unit would stop hovering over her like a vulture who’s spotted a particularly ripe carcass if she thought I was from the upper tier of the noblesse.    But said mother continued to machete through the bushes and peer at us through the undergrowth anyway.” I shook my head and paced about the room a bit. “Well, a Rooster does not let a school chum wallow in misery when a chance at happiness is at hand. Somehow I must help this worthy member of the old alma mater to—Greaves. What is this?”

“Sir?”

“I am referring to this box of silverware which somepony has egregiously planted atop my bed.”

“Oh my, how did that get there?”

“That is precisely what I was wondering, Greaves.”

“It was most remiss of me, sir. I meant to put it in my room.”

“Greaves, I cannot help but feel this is part of a plot to supplant my own silverware.”

“Oh no, sir!” He looked shocked, meaning his eyes widened a fraction of an inch. “This set is merely for my personal use in the kitchen, sir.”

“I see.”

“Although I will be glad to supplement your extremely colourful cutlery, sir, should a flock of magpies, drawn by the glitter, steal some of the set.”

“Now look here, Greaves—!”

“If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll remove it immediately. You’ll find the stamps and writing supplies on the desk.” Out of the room he shimmered.

“Honestly!” I said. Clearly this valet of mine was not going to admit defeat re: flatware without a fight. Still, time would show him which of us was master of the house (or flat or suite, as the case might be). At the mo. I had other matters to attend to, like writing to my Aunt Dahlia.

After a few false starts and various pages tossed aside due to misspellings or ink blots, I surveyed the finished product.

It went like this:

Dear Aunt Dahlia,

You will be pleased to know I arrived safely in Canterlot. The weather is clement, though the pegasus ponies have scheduled scattered showers for later in the week.

I’ve been sniffing around the Royal Museum and I’m sorry but snatching the Border Blanket is just out of the question. The amount of guards frothing about the place is absolutely ridic. Extremely sorry and so on, but you wouldn’t want your favourite nephew to spend the rest of his days languishing in a dungeon, now would you?

Love to Cousin Angel.

Your affectionate nephew,

Birdy

As for Aunt Agate, she would just have to hold her horses, so to speak, while I waited for a chance to chat with Great-Aunt Celly.

I sealed and stamped the missive, but when I entered the sitting room Greaves was nowhere to be found. Presumably he was in his own room, either putting away his luggage or looking over his blasted Chantilly patterned silver with a gloating eye. Well, we Roosters are independent types. I decided to mail the ruddy letter myself.

As I trotted down the hallways, the shiny gloss of paper caught my eye, looking rather out of place between two old and muted tapestries. I coasted over to take a look.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you can tell a lot about an upcoming event by the fliers, adverts, and posters strewn about for them. It’s all in the colour scheme. If the printer has restrained herself to black, white, and grey, the event is going to be a snoozer. If the entire spectrum is present in all its supersaturated glory, then brace yourself for hoards of screaming children and harried parents. A careful balance of bright colours against a black background is what I look for, a combo that promises a lively yet full-grown crowd of ponies, hopefully at a venue with singing, dancing, and an open bar to boot.

This particular poster, unfortunately, was a black-and-white affair; it showed the silhouettes of several ponies with tubas and cellos and such standing in front of glaring footlights while a giant rose (the only splash of colour on the thing) hung ponderously over their heads like the sword of Dam-ocles—if he’s the fellow whose sword I’m thinking of. The surrounding text announced a concert to be held shortly in the Royal Concert Hall—there’s a Royal Everything in Canterlot, don’t you know—and gave top billing to some ponies I’d never heard of. Octavia? Treble Clef? Don’t ask me.

Just as I was concluding that this event looked like a good cure for insomnia, an angry voice snapped, “You!”

I turned to see Pinstripe Tock bearing down on me. “What-ho, Tock.”

“Are you the one who keeps hanging these things all over the palace?” He slapped the poster with a hoof.

“Not at all, I was merely—”

“It’s completely against castle regulations!” He pulled down the poster and stuffed it in his saddlebags. “All decorations, decrees, and advertisements have to be approved through official channels by filling out the appropriate paperwork, to be cataloged in triplicate on Form 2833-10C, listing their purpose, location, name of designer, date of event (when applicable)—”

I’ve suffered enough visits from my Aunt Agate to recognize an endless tirade when I hear one. Therefore, the minute Tock turned away to scrape tape residue off the wall I sidled away and made good my escape, edging around the corner and breaking into a trot. Luckily the heavy carpeting muffled my hoofbeats.

Then Luck decided it had something better to do and wandered away. As a result I made a sharpish left turn and ran smack into another pony. Once I stopped seeing double I determined that he was a unicorn colt who’d been conversing with a filly of the same breed.

“Oh, dreadfully sorry,” I said, picking myself off the floor as he did likewise.

“Watch where you’re going!” snapped the object I’d collided with as he dusted off his suit. The fellow was bright yellow with red and orange hair. I refrained from pointing out that good manners cost nothing and gave heartfelt apology another shot.

“Didn’t mean to trouble you, old chap, but that’s not exactly the best place to stand, you know—just around a corner. Creating a road hazard, one might say. Still, we’ll say no more about it. All is forgiven.”

The colt merely snorted, derisively if I’m any judge, and aimed his nose towards the ceiling. The unicorn filly, on the other hand, was looking at me with a kind of icy gaze, like a cat that's just been offered an inferior brand of cat food. She was pale purple with white and pink hair, and all in all was a frosty looking chippie. When she aimed her eyes at the yellow unicorn she kept up the frigid gaze, which seemed to be her natural expression.

“Don’t mind my brother,” she said in a cool voice, looking back towards me. “He has neither manners nor tact.”

Well, what does one say to that? In this case nothing, because the yellow colt instantly retorted, “At least I’ve got more feelings than an ice sculpture!”

The lavender pony affected not to hear this, although she must’ve because he was practically bellowing in her ear. “I am Princette Snow Shimmer and this lout is my brother, Sun Shimmer.”

I suppose I’d better pause here for a quick of an explanation of noble titles. A lot of ponies are surprised to find that, in Equestria, the equivalent of a prince is not a princess. This is a common misconception among the masses, but in fact the only princesses in Equestria are my many-times-Great Aunt Celestia and the recent Luna. The supreme rulers, don’t you know.

Princes are firmly below them on the social scale, and the female equivalent of a prince bears the title of “princette”. I imagine this is to minimize confusion between the two alicorn princesses, who more or less run Equestria, and the noblefillies, who more or less don’t.    

At any rate, it’s been like that as long as anypony can remember. I imagine it came about something like this:

NOBLEFILLY:  What-ho!

CELESTIA: What-ho!

NOBLEFILLY: I hope you’ll attend my marriage to Prince Whats-It. I am so looking forward to trading up from being a mere duchess to a princess.

CELESTIA:  Hang on a tick. That’s going to be dashed confusing, you being a princess and me being a princess.

NOBLEFILLY:  By gum, you’re right! Next thing you know ponies will be asking me to raise the sun and so forth. Tell you what, why don’t I call myself a princette instead.

CELESTIA:  That sounds just the ticket! Well, cheerio!

NOBLEFILLY:  Tinkerty-tonk!

Getting back to the encounter in the hall, Princette Snow Shimmer continued her little speech.

“I apologize for Sun Shimmer,” she said, brows drawing together. “He’s rather temperamental. No doubt this is why I am a princette and he is a mere duke,” she added in an aside to me that was, frankly, dashed loud.

“I don’t have to stand here and listen to your insults!” the yellow unicorn snapped before marching away.

“He always has to make a grand exit,” the princette said, without a glance at her sibling’s dramatic departure. “Don’t let his histrionics bother you.”

“Well, we all have our little moments of temper,” I said, waving the matter off. “What did he have for lunch?”

“What?” She stared.

“For lunch. I’ve noticed my Uncle Pomegranate often gets a bit hot under the collar if he eats anything with nuts in it. Or coconut. It unsettles his stomach and then he snaps at anypony and everypony. My Aunt Dahlia has absolutely excised macaroons from the house as a result.”

“I think it’s more likely ill-temper my brother suffers from than indigestion,” the purple unicorn said. She may have added a subtle sneer, but it was hard to tell because her voice was so even.

“Oh well, no pony likes to unexpectedly be knocked on his caboose,” I said. “I’m Birdy, by the way, Birdy Rooster.”

“Mmm,” said she, not seeming especially enthralled by this information. “Good day, Birdy Rooster.” And she turned and walked away without another word, if you can believe it. Whatever etiquette lessons had been given to those two, they came to naught in my opinion.

Well, I returned to my original mission and soon came to the letter box, decorated with scrolls and suns and stars all over its gold-plating. It was at that very moment being emptied by a grey pegasus pony with light yellow hair. From this action and from the postal saddlebags over her flanks, I deduced she was a mail-pony.

“What-ho,” I said. “I have a letter here for you!”

“A letter!” the grey pegasus squeaked. “Happy tirings to friends far awash!”

“Er, I see. I put on enough postage, didn’t I? It’s going to the UQ, so...” (The UQ being, of course, the United Queendom. I’ve never heard of us having ownership of an actual queen, so I’m a bit fogged by the name, but there it is. One of life’s little mysteries.)

The pegasus looked at the letter and nodded happily   “Muffins arriving in freshest condition,” she enthused, taking it. “Fastest delivery in three colours where available!!”

“Quite. Quite. Well, I must be off! Pip-pip!” I steamed off towards my room, reflecting that half my auntly troubles were at an end.

The next morning I awoke with that out of place feeling that sometimes crops up when you’re in a strange bed. This was especially discombotchulating, if discombotchulating is the word I want, because I’d been dreaming that I was at Ping-Pong Thistledown’s birthday party, and if I had been to one of Pongo’s festivities, there’s no telling where I might have found myself when I pried the eyelids apart. (The day-after the last three of Pongo’s wingdings I awoke to find myself, respectively: sprawled in the aisle of the Londun Opera House, tangled in the uppermost branches of an oak tree, and in a row boat in the middle of a pond, the rocking of which did nothing for my pounding head. Nor did the discovery that the oars were missing.)

Of course, once I sat up and swiveled my eyes ‘round the room, I got my bearings. The sun and moon designs plastered on all the furniture all but called ‘Canterlot!’, and I remembered all. I went through my morning ablutions and brushed the mane and so forth, then sauntered into the sitting room.

“Greaves? Are you about?” He didn’t seem to be, so I trotted out of the room and down to the dining hall for some grub.

As I’m sure you know, it isn’t just the Princess—or, nowadays, Princesses in the plural—who live in the castle. Various nobles are entrenched in the palace and there are always diplomats and such coming and going.

My childhood memories of breakfast in Canterlot involve of a certain amount of noise and bustle, but at a relaxed pace... ponies (and other creatures) queuing up along long tables stocked with oatmeal, omelets, tofu sausages, and fresh fruit, gabbing with one another, trying to push a fried egg onto their plate and attempting to keep their dignity intact should it slide off onto the floor, as so often happens. Servants continually hauled empty platters and tureens away and replaced them with full ones, much like “new lamps for old” in Aladdin, if the magic lamp had contained orange juice instead of oil.

These fond memories from days past were rudely shattered when I reached the dining hall on this fateful day. The polished wooden tables were free from any tureen or dish—completely barren, in fact—and the only signs of life were a few servants rolling through the room like tumbleweeds. Not a noblepony or diplomat was to be seen and not a smidge of food either! My stomach groaned at this news, with my mouth following suit.

“What on earth?” I said.

“Can I help you, Mr. Rooster?”

I looked behind me to find Pinstripe Tock, Royal Organizator, looking at me rather coldly and raising a sardonic eyebrow. No doubt he felt I was Suspect Number One in the department of Illicit Poster Hanging.

Nevertheless, I felt the hour was too early to be faced with eyebrow raising, especially on an empty stomach, so I replied in steely tones. “Yes, you jolly well can help me, Tock! You can point me towards breakfast! Did they move it to another room or something?”

“Breakfast is over, Mr. Rooster.”

“Over? How do you mean, ‘over’?”

“I mean over. It is 11:08, Mr. Rooster.”

“What about it? What does that have to do with anything?”

“Breakfast,” Tock said as he clicked across to a table to dispose of a crumpled napkin, “begins at 7:30 a.m. sharp and runs to 9 o’clock.”

“Nine o’clock? Do you mean to say it ends at nine? Who on earth is up by that ghastly hour?”

“Well, the other guests seem to have mastered it, Mr. Rooster. After a period of... adjustment.”

“But I mean to say, this is positively obscene!”

“Luncheon begins at 12:30 and runs until 1:45... 1:45 precisely. If you’re timely, you can get some food then.” And the hateful blighter clicked off.

“They used to run breakfast straight through ‘till lunch sauntered onto the table,” I murmured with a drooping head and heavy heart as I trudged back up the stairs to my room. Clearly the retirement of the good mare Sprinkles Featherdown had dealt a blow to Canterlot’s fabled hospitality.

“Good morning, sir.”

I looked up as I entered my suite. “Ah, Greaves, you’re back.”

“I am most sorry I was not present when you awoke, sir. I felt it would be wise to attend to other matters.”

And then, if you can believe it, he whisked a cloth off a tray on the table to reveal blueberry pancakes, toast, and scrambled eggs. I had trouble believing it myself. I would have pinched myself, had I fingers.

“But... how?” I sputtered.

“This morning when I sought out Mr. Tock to inform him of our room number, as he requested, I discovered the limited confines of the breakfast hour, sir. I hesitated to wake you, feeling you would rather sleep in.”

“Too right I’d rather sleep in! So you scooped up some of the leftovers, eh?” I let the nostrils flare and drew in the smell of the nectar of the gods, by which I mean pancakes with syrup.

“Not exactly, sir. I dropped by the kitchen and convinced them to supply me with fresher food, sir. The leavings in the dining hall were looking somewhat limp by the time I arrived.”

“Jolly good show, Greaves! I’m surprised you pulled it off; I seem to remember the kitchen staff being quite miffed whenever I stuck my nose in their domain and tried to cadge food off them, fresh or otherwise.”

“It is an art, sir. Would you care for milk or orange juice?”

“Orange juice, if you please.” I seated myself at the dining table. “Well, well. I don’t mind telling you that this has put a better complexion on the day.”

“I’m very pleased to hear that. Shall I fetch the paper for you, sir?”

“That would be topping, Greaves,” I said, dolloping some extra syrup onto the pancakes. “And dig up some jam, if you can.”

“Certainly, sir.” Away he slid, leaving me to ponder how an earth pony could move like he was on rollers.

I was well into breakfast when I faintly heard sounds from the entryway, knocking followed by indecipherable babbles. Greaves projected himself back into the sitting room a moment later. “There is a young lady here to see you, a Miss Heartsong.”

“Good old Stinker Plinker! Show her in, Greaves, by all means,” I said, hoisting the last piece of toast into my mouth.

He nodded and a minute later ushered her in. “Miss Lyra Heartsong.”

“What-ho, Plinker!” I greeted the unicorn filly as she emerged into the sitting room. “So you found my abode after all.”

“Yes, but it wasn’t easy. I wandered up and down the halls for a half hour until I bumped into this earth pony wearing a side-saddle organizer.”

“By the name of Pinstripe Tock, perchance?”

“Something like that. He snorted and said, ‘Oh, THAT one.’  What have you been doing to that poor pony, Birdy?”

“Ask rather what he has been doing to me, Plinker.”

“Maybe later. Actually, Birdy... I have a favour to ask you.”

“Ask away, old thing.”

“Can I lay low here an hour or two? My mother is trailing me again. But I figure even she won’t stand in a hallway for two hours staring at a closed door. And if that doesn’t work,” she added with some desperation, “I’ll sneak out the window.”

“Steady on, old fruit! It’s four stories down, you know. And four stories up. Eight stories in all. But to answer your query, you can certainly camp out here. Care for some breakfast? Greaves, please fetch Ms. Heartsong some eggs and pancakes.”

“No, that’s all right. I ate hours ago,” she smiled as she sat on the sofa in her own unique, slumping fashion. “But thanks for the offer.”

“Perhaps some lemonade, miss?” Greaves murmured, floating out of the room.

“Sure, lemonade would be—oops, he’s gone already... Oh hey, you have a piano?” Her eyes lit up, being another connoisseur of the musical arts.

“I most certainly do. One of the reasons I targeted this specific room for my base of operations.” I seated myself and tapped a few keys to warm up. “Any requests? I could play the old school song or—”

“No, no, do Minnie the Moocher!”

This just goes to show how a good education can broaden the mind. When Plinker first came to Wheaton, all she knew where those wordless instrumental pieces for flutes and lyres and violins and things. Good enough tunes in their way, I suppose, but not exactly the kind of thing to set one rollicking, if you know what I mean.

But after a few short months at Wheaton, this previously quiet and reserved mint-green unicorn was singing along with the rest of us (especially after lubricating the vocal muscles with a few drinks), roaring out the words to classics like Forty-Seven Ginger-Headed Sailors and the aforementioned Minnie the Moocher, which has an absolutely corking refrain that really gets the hooves tapping.

Of course I acceded to the lady’s request and hammered out the tune. We were just belting out that bit that goes “she was a low-down hoochie coocher,” when Greaves popped back in with a pitcher of lemonade.

He didn’t go so far as to look startled, but a subtle twitching of his left eye suggested he was perturbed—probably dismayed at not knowing the words of the song, which is always embarrassing. I’ve run into the same situation at the Drones Club and I generally choose to fake it by mouthing along, and then rush out to buy the music later. But of course it’s not so easy to disguise such ignorance in a sitting room where only two ponies are harmonizing rather than a whole crowd, so out of consideration I quickly wrapped up the song. Greaves moved to set down the lemonade on the table and, sure enough, his eye twitching had already lessened considerably.

“My mother would have a fit if she heard me singing that,” laughed Plinker. Then she gave an especially wide grin. “I wonder where I can buy the sheet music. I could play it at the royal concert... ‘Minnie the Moocher, as adapted for the lyre by Lyra Heartsong, accompanied by interpretive dance.’ That’d scare off those mouldy old stallions my mother keeps shoving in my path.”

“A-hem.”

“Did you cough, Greaves?” I asked, a bit startled. He didn’t seem like the kind of pony who could cough, let alone would.

“Yes, sir. I believe I have come up with a solution to the problem to which Ms. Heartsong alludes.”

“What?” Plinker said, sitting up straight for once.

I was, if anything, even more surprised. I positively reeled. “A solution? But how? And what?”

“Well, sir, the idea occurred to me after you mentioned that Dame Heartsong laboured under the misapprehension that you are a prince. The elder Heartsongs are ambitious, sir.”

“I’ll say they are,” Plinker said in tones of bitterness. “But that doesn’t help us. Heck, that’s the problem!”

“That is true, miss. But should you become affianced to a member of the upper echelon of nobility—for example a prince—your mother would likely stop keeping you under such close surveillance.”

“I see,” she said thoughtfully.

“But how would we arrange that?” I asked.

“Birdy, you dummy, my mother thinks YOU are a prince. I would get engaged to YOU.”

“Oh!” The light dawned, then dimmed down a bit. One doesn’t just tell a girl flat-out that one isn’t interested in marrying her, member of the old alma mater or no, so I took the subtle approach. “But, ah, I thought you wanted to marry Bon Bon, her being so radiant and all that.”

“I do.” She gave a light, airy sigh—no doubt imagining she was saying it on the altar to her one-and-only. “I’m afraid you’re right, Birdy, it’s a no-go. It would probably make my mother even angrier when I finally told her the truth. Not that I don’t appreciate the effort, Mister, er... ”

“Greaves, miss. And if you’ll pardon me for contradicting you, I believe the plan would work. It hinges on one vital fact.”

“Oh?” I inquired. “And what’s that?”

“That you are not a prince, sir. Should Miss Heartsong wish to end her engagement to you without arousing her mother’s ire, she need only run to Dame Heartsong—weeping and crying, if I might suggest, miss—lamenting that you are a scoundrel and a rake who misled her innocent heart.”

“Misled her—?”

“Innocent heart, sir. If, at this juncture, Miss Bon Bon stepped forward to comfort Miss Heartsong and soothe her aching heart, I fancy the elder Heartsongs would be more kindly disposed towards their courtship and eventual marriage.”

“That might just work,” Plinker breathed, eyes widening as she clopped her hooves together. “It might just WORK!”

“Well, well, well.” I eyed Greaves with frank astonishment. That he could rustle fluffy pancakes out from under the noses of irritable cooks, I was aware of. That he could stir up potions to soothe head and stomach, I knew. That he had no appreciation for fine cutlery, I had learned the hard way. But I had never expected him to author such brainy plans as this. “How do you do it, Greaves? Do you eat a lot of spinach?”

“Sir?”

“I read an article that said spinach revs up the brain enormously. Do you devour it by the bushel?”

“I enjoy it in moderate amounts, sir.”

“Birdy, will you please stop yammering about spinach and tell me if you’ll go along with the plan? Please say yes. Please! Pleeeease!” Plinker pleaded, putting her hooves together in supplication.

“Of course I will, Plinker old chum,” I said, patting her shoulder. “Consider yourself engaged.”

“YAY!” she squealed, prancing around the room. “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, this is so great! Wait till I tell Bon Bon!” Then she stopped in her tracks so quickly the rug rumpled under her hooves. “But... what if my mother DOES keep spying on me? I mean, she followed me to the candy store even though I was with you! If she spots me meeting with Bon Bon all the time, it’s all over!”

“I am inclined to think Dame Heartsong’s surveillance will end once she is of the opinion that you are safely engaged, miss. Her thoughts will naturally become embroiled in wedding planning instead. But if rumor had it that the ‘prince’ highly valued his privacy and took a stern view towards voyeurs and oglers, I believe that would provide further insurance against her tendency to spy.”

“But as far as I know, there aren’t any such rumors about me, Greaves,” I said doubtfully.

“I am sure I can arrange the matter to your satisfaction, sir,” said he with a slight smile.

“Well! Arrange away, Greaves, arrange away.”

“Oh Birdy, thank you so much!” Plinker looked on the verge of tears, the happy kind. “I’m going to go tell my mother right now!” Out she rushed.

“Well, well. That was gratifying, what? I daresay it’s clear sailing ahead, for me and Plinker both. I don’t see how it can possibly go wrong.”

Next chapter:  Things go wrong!

Chapter 4: A Cousin in Need Is a Cousin Indeed

Chapter 4 – A Cousin in Need Is a Cousin Indeed

Now, if you listen to my aunts—which is not something I would ever recommend—they will describe my next actions with scorn, disdain, or possibly both. Unkind words such as “feckless”, “irresponsible”, “imbecile”, and “mentally negligible young blot” will likely be employed as they vent their ire. Let this be a lesson to you on the gratitude of aunts; they have none.

I do not deny that, for the next few days, I took the opportunity to reacquaint myself with the arts and culture of the fine city of Canterlot. I viewed such triumphs of the stage as “Too Many Fillies” and “Twelve Gentlecolts of Brumby”—both of which featured some dashed good tunes, I might add—and discovered a crop of new nightclubs that had popped up in my absence.

In the afternoons I strolled around the castle gardens or plunked down with an improving book, finally finding enough leisure time to finish The Mystery of the Pink Cupcake. (The gardener did it.) And of course, because I couldn’t neglect the noble sporting traditions of Equestria, you could frequently find me cheering on the racing-ponies at the track.

Perhaps I was not exactly actively engaged in the Two Labours of Birdsong which my aunts had foisted upon me, but had I not already been on a valiant mission to scout out the Border Blanket and concluded it was futile to try to pinch it? And was I not hobbled in my attempts to chat with Great-Aunt Celly about Cousin August, thanks to the metric-loving Royal Organizator, Pinstripe Tock? And despite these time-consuming missions, had I not also found time to help my school chum, Plinker, navigate the tricky rapids of love?

The answer to all these questions, by the way, is “yes”. Do not listen to ponies who try to tell you otherwise and walk away with quiet dignity if they call you “a complete and utter fathead.”

Anyway, a thoroughly enjoyable week slid by. Greaves oiled into my room with a breakfast tray every morning, apparently still enjoying the blessing of the royal cooks.  And thank goodness for that, because when a chap staggers home in the wee hours of the morning with his mane in disarray and his legs wavering, the last thing he wants is to have to awaken at an only slightly less wee hour for breakfast.  It’s much better to break the fast at a civilized hour, like 11 or 12.

On the morning I have since dubbed Doom Tuesday (or possibly Doom Wednesday, I really can’t remember which it was as I write this), Greaves entered the bedroom as usual, bearing a tray with naught but a small glass on it.

“Good morning, sir,” said he.

“Mmmruhhh...” moaned I, pushing the pillow off my head and peeling one gummy eyelid open.

He cleared his throat respectfully. “I have brought your morning restorative, sir,” he said, setting the glass on the bedside table.

I shakily brought the old unicorn telekinesis to bear and drained the glass.  The liquid had its usual violent dispute with my stomach and, as usual, triumphed over the uncooperative organ and calmed it.  My head cleared, the birds rang out their morning ditties, and the world seemed like a livable arena once again.

“Ah, you’ve come through with the goods again, Greaves. Someday you must tell me what’s in that concoction of yours.”

“I am glad you approve, sir. Worchester sauce and red pepper are among the primary ingredients.”

“So you say, but its effectiveness causes me to suspect more occult fixings. You sure you aren’t slipping some eye of newt and/or toe of frog in there?”

“That would hardly be hygienic, sir. One can achieve amazing results with purely natural ingredients.” He set the glass back on the tray. “Did you have an enjoyable evening, sir?”

“Oh, topping! I put thirty bits on Yesterdaisy to win, and win she did, at odds of twenty to one! You should’ve seen it—she was trailing Comet Tail and Skedoodle almost the entire race, but as they rounded the corner she put on this amazing burst of speed, drew neck in neck with Romperooni, and shot down the home stretch like a—”

“Most fascinating, sir. I wonder, sir, if you recall at what point your bow tie became knotted around your left ear.”

“Bow tie?” I glanced upward, flicking my ear. All seemed in working order and free of accessories. “Don’t be silly, Greaves, there’s nothing there.”

“I took the liberty of removing it when you came in last night, sir, fearing it would cut off your circulation.”

“Oh, I see! Well, having won all those bits on Yesterdaisy, I thought it was only right to show my appreciation by knocking back a few drinks with her and her friends, and one round led to another, you know how it is. No doubt one of them looped it there at some point as a jolly wheeze. Spirits were running high, let me tell you!”

“And flowing constantly, I’m sure, sir. I’m afraid the misadventures of the night have left the object in question in a state of disrepair.” He picked the bow tie off the bureau, and it’s true that the strip of fabric looked rather limp and frayed. “If I might point out, sir, this is the third of our bow ties that has met an untimely end this week. If we do not start being more careful with them, we shall have to buy more.”

“Well,” I suggested, “I could stop wearing them when I go out on the town.”

“Sir!” He drew back with a violent shudder, eyes actually showing the whites. “A gentlecolt does not appear in public without proper attire!”

I could tell he was genuinely distressed (I had never heard him make remarks with such fervor—or ANY fervor—before) so I took pity on him and said, “Quite so, quite so.  I should feel naked without one anyway. I suppose I could—”

“If you’ll pardon me, sir, I believe I hear the door.”

I hadn’t heard a bally thing, but a minute later Greaves shimmered back in with an envelope. “A telepathogram just arrived for you, sir. I have detained the messenger in the sitting room, should you wish to send back a reply.”

“Thank you, Greaves. Now who could this... Oh, Aunt Dahlia.” I felt a knot of foreboding in my stomach, somewhere beneath the pancakes and eggs, but there was nothing to do but open the envelope. I unfolded it and read it out loud.

“‘Dear idiot’—Oh I say, that’s not a very promising start—‘Dear idiot, Regret that you were not eaten by sharks on voyage to C. What is meaning of blathering about guards and dungeons? I will make you wish you were in a d. if you don’t fetch the object pronto. Note I say ‘object’ instead of mentioning it by name like a silly ass. You make a terrible spy. Get it or an aunt’s curse be upon you. Angel sends her love. –  Dahlia Traverse.’”

“Duchess Traverse is a pony of strong opinion,” Greaves observed. “Will you return a reply, sir?”

“Ummm, yes. Yes. Take this down, Greaves.” I ordered my thoughts as he pulled a pad of paper from the desk. “‘Dear Auntie, I say, look here. You tell me to grab object but how on bally earth can I? Object not available for grabbing. You say to stop blathering about g.’s, but g.’s are exactly what stand in way of Birdsong grabbing o. in question. Simply impossible, I’m sorry, but there it is. How did Angel like Fence? Love, Birdy.’”

“Very good, sir. I will instruct the messenger to see that it is sent as soon as he returns to the office.” He slid out of the room and hadn’t been gone more than a few minutes before returning... bearing another sealed envelope.

“Good heavens, she can’t have sent back a reply already!” I yipped.

“No sir, a second runner arrived just as I dismissed the first runner.”

“Well, let’s see what it’s all about. I suppose it’s too much to hope Aunt Dahlia felt a pang of regret for the harsh tone of her first missive and quickly issued this one to apologize...”

My voice trailed away, and why? Because my tongue had disengaged from my brain the moment I’d spotted the sender’s name on the envelope:  Duchess Agate Blueblood.

“Sir?” Greaves inquired as I gaped at the envelope, doing my best dying fish impression.

“Read it aloud, will you, Greaves?” I hovered the missive over to him, quivering slightly. (If you are wondering if the quivering applied to the envelope or to self, I can assure you there was plenty of the adjective available to go around.)

“Certainly, sir.” Greaves’ voice was smooth and calm;  it would be hard to hit a less strident note without being dead. Thus his recitation no doubt lacked some of the vigor and force that the writer had intended.

Despite this, I felt my anxiety rising as he read the bally thing, as follows:  “‘Birdsong. No news from you in weeks. Most upset. Have you arrived in Canterlot or haven’t you. Vital that you speak with Princess immediately. Vote imminent. Dear August in dire straits. Relying on you. Respond immediately. – Duchess Agate Blueblood.’”

“Thank you, Greaves.” I took the telepathogram and looked it over. It was more or less as he’d said. He’d kicked the curly bit off the top of a question mark after “have you arrived or haven’t you” and had smoothed down “VITAL that you speak with Princess”, “RELYING on you”, and “Respond IMMEDIATELY” to a uniform volume so that they sounded more like entreaties than threats, but his speech otherwise matched the text to a T. Though why it should be expected to conform to a T and not some other letter is beyond me.

“Do you wish to send a reply, sir?”

“I’d better, hadn’t I? Before she sends her winged monkeys after me... Let’s see. How about... ‘Dear Aunt Agate, Am safely ensconced in Canterlot. All going swimmingly. Having close personal chat with Princess tomorrow—’ No, better make it ‘day after tomorrow’ to allay her suspicions. ‘No worries, everything under control. Yours, Birdy.’”

“Very good, sir.” He stepped into the sitting room to relay this to Messenger #2 whilst I ruminated, if ruminated is the word I want.

“You know, Greaves, I can’t quite make out what Aunt Agate is on about with this ‘voting’ business,” I said as he stepped back in.

“I believe that is Duchess Blueblood’s oblique way of referencing the activities on the agenda at the next meeting of the Council of Peers, sir.”

“But the Council doesn’t vote on anything. Well, except personal matters like what colour of carpet to put in their HQ or which catering company to use at their next ball, I suppose...”

“And membership, sir.”

“Well, yes. But Cousin August is already a member, being a prince and all that.”

Greaves cleared his throat again, meaningfully it seemed to me. “Their Royal Highnesses Celestia and Luna will be finalizing the budget for the year soon, sir. Including the amount of money apportioned to the Council of Peers.”

“Go on, Greaves, I can see you’re headed somewhere with this.”

“The Princesses’ generosity directly effects how many members the Council can retain, sir, since the Council allots each member an allowance in proportion to her or his station.”

“Except the knights.”

“Just as you say, sir. Knights are given accolades and nothing more. But they are not unaffected by these machinations, sir, as this is also the time of year when ‘a noble’s fancy turns to thoughts of promotion’, if I might paraphrase Lord Tenneighson.”

“You might, Greaves, you might. I think I begin to see your meaning.”

“That is most gratifying, sir.”

“But you have overlooked one vital fact, my good colt. Cousin August is a prince, and therefore already at the top of this heap of nobles and gentry. Alicorn princesses aside—and he is just out of luck if he wishes to become one of them—he has no further peaks to ascend.”

“Actually, sir, the point I was endeavoring to make—Excuse me, sir, the door.”

I was unsurprised when he returned with yet another telepathogram. “Which one is it this time?

“Duchess Dahlia Traverse, sir.”

“Read it, Greaves, read it,” I sighed with a weary gesture.

“Very good, sir. Ahem... ‘No, no, no, no, no, no, no. You are not wriggling out of this duty, so put that right out of your brainless head. Go in dead of night instead of sauntering in during visiting hours, you blighted fool. Regret that ocean separates us, as unable to kick you into cactus garden. Angel enjoyed trip to continent aside from small bout of food poisoning. - Dahlia Traverse.’”

I groaned and buried my head in my hooves.  When I lifted my eyes, Greaves was standing there patiently, pencil poised and eyebrow raised.

“Oh right, a reply,” I said, heaving myself out of bed and dragging a brush moodily through my hair. “Tell her... Tell her...” The fighting spirit of the Roosters flashed, then puffed out like a birthday candle. A pony has to admit when he’s outmatched. “Tell her ‘Right-ho.’”

“Very good, sir,” said Greaves, slipping off to send the missive on its way while I washed the sleep out of my eyes.

“Well Greaves, I have a thorny situation here and no mistake,” I said a bit later, pacing up and down the sitting room. “It seems to me that my first goal must be to locate my cousin. I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of him since I arrived.”

“I believe I can shed some light on that matter, sir.  The word in the Servants’ Hall is that Prince Blueblood has confined himself to his quarters, sneaking into the larder late at night for sustenance. This information comes by way of his valets.”

“Did you say valets, plural?”

“Yes, sir, though they were in his employ consecutively, not concurrently. Prince Blueblood has had three valets since our arrival to Canterlot.”

“Good grief! Fired or fled?”

“They chose to seek employ elsewhere,” Greaves said delicately. “My understanding is Prince Blueblood has always suffered from a high turnover of staff, though not normally approaching this volume.”

“Well, are we surprised, Greaves?  There’s August, hunkered down in his room day and night for reasons unknown, and there’s his hapless gentlecolt’s personal gentlecolt trapped in the same flat with the odious lump day after day. It’s a wonder none of them threw themselves out the window.”

“Perhaps they felt looking for other employment offered a better future, sir. In any case, I have ascertained the location of Prince Blueblood’s suite.”

“Excellent work. Lead on!”

As we tracked through the hallways, he asked, “Am I mistaken in thinking there is a certain amount of coolness between you and your cousin, sir?”

“Not mere coolness, Greaves, but a vast and trackless field of ice. Let me tell you a tale of the abominable August Blueblood that will chill your very soul.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Imagine, if you will, yours truly aged five or six or some other significantly small digit.  There I was, not a care in the world, bobbling down a garden path whilst my many, varied aunts chattered amongst themselves on the distant horizon. For my pleasant demeanor on the ride over, I had been rewarded with an ice lolly, lemon-flavored. I levitated it along in front of me as I trotted past the flower beds in my second-best suit. Can you picture this scenario?”

“I think I have a good mental approximation of it, sir.”

“Brace yourself, Greaves, for this pleasant pastoral scene is about to be rudely disturbed.  With a crunch of gravel, my cousin August stepped onto the garden path. He was somewhat larger than I, being what is known as a 'stocky' foal. His eyes lit up with envy as he witnessed young Birdsong enjoying a frozen treat on this hot and humid summer day. He stepped forward menacingly and said in a tone that did not in the least acknowledge our mutual familial ties, ‘Hey Birdbrain, gimme that lolly!’”

“Most distressing, sir.”

“Of course in the true Rooster spirit, I put my ears back and refused. The promise of a lemon ice lolly was the only reason I had silently suffered the long, hot, and all around miserable carriage ride. So I retorted, ‘No, it’s mine!’  Did the rotter give up and push off? Far from it! In a trice his horn lit up and he tried to wrest it away. I don’t suppose you have ever been involved in a levitation tug-of-war, Greaves?”

“No, sir. Being an earth pony, that particular manner of brawling has eluded me.”

“Well, it’s not so different from regular tug-of-war, except you’re using magic instead of muscles. The ice lolly ping-ponged between us until August got the upper hoof and yanked it out of my control with such force that not only did I stumble forward, but also tripped right into a rather deep mud puddle. And how did Cousin August react to this turn of events? Did he apologize like a civilized pony, perhaps holding out a hoof to help his blood relation out of the muck?”

“I am agog to know, sir.”

“I am sorry to inform you that not only did he not come to my aid, but he laughed most heartily. Even when I lamented aloud the scolding I would undoubtedly receive for the ruination of my second-best suit, even then he showed no remorse, merely smirking over his stolen treat. No, it is no surprise to me, Greaves, that servants feel an overwhelming urge to give notice when stuck in close proximity to this blister.”

“Could one not put down the episode you describe to foalish folly, sir?”

“Not at all, Greaves, not at all,” I said firmly. “Can the chimera change her spots or the dragon her scales? No, not only did this incident foreshadow the deeply flawed personality that August has since revealed in full, but it also unveiled the sweet, gentle nature of my other cousin, Angel, for all to see.”

“Indeed, sir? I had not noticed her partaking in your narrative.”

“She was not present for the first bit, Greaves, but she happened along as I dragged myself out of the mud, disheveled and (between you and me) shedding salty tears while August laughed himself silly.  Upon viewing this scene, she correctly surmised what had happened and punched August so hard that he ran off crying with nosebleed.” I sighed fondly. “A saint, that girl.”

“A tale to warm the heart, sir. If you’ll pardon me interrupting, I believe this is the residence in question.” He made a slight nod towards a wooden door.

“Ah, thank you, Greaves.” I knocked on the portal. A few minutes passed, and I knocked harder.

“Who’s there?” The door opened a crack to reveal a narrowed blue eye.

“What-ho, what-ho, cousin of mine!” I greeted it, guessing it belonged to August. This was confirmed when he opened the door a bit wider.

“Oh, it’s you, Birdy.” There was a well attended congregation of shadows gathering under his eyes, and the ends of his bow tie straggling sadly like strands of seaweed, though granted it would have to be upside down seaweed to really give that effect.  “What are you doing here?” he asked without enthusiasm.

“Just visiting, you know. I thought we might talk of this and that. May I come in?”

One might ordinarily consider this question a friendly formality but my cousin, brow furrowing, seemed to be giving it serious thought.

“Ohhhh... very WELL,” he said at last, unfastening the door chain and opening wide the portal. The interior of the room was what I believe is technically known as “a shambles.” Ties, suits, and cravats were strewn over various items of furniture, empty bottles crowded every end table, and a pile of dirty dishes huddled on, under, and around the dining room table. Behind me, I heard Greaves make a faint, pained sound;  at the time I assumed it was due to the disorder, but since then I have had reason to think it may have been due to a few excessively bright cravats.

“Who’s that?” August said as he aimed a suspicious stare at Greaves, who was now exercising his blankest expression.

“Oh, just my valet.”

“Well, send him away. I’ve seen enough valets to last me a life time. They’re all unreliable, untrustworthy, and un... un... un...” He paced back and forth, apparently searching for another derogatory adjective starting with that particular prefix, whilst I looked on appalled. Not only was he rambling, but he was in a state that could only be described as “slovenly” and “unkempt.” Whatever August Blueblood’s faults—and I’m not saying it’s a short list—I knew that under normal circs. he took almost obsessive care of his appearance. Clearly, something was rotten in the state of Dunmark.

I raised an eyebrow at Greaves, by which I meant to convey, “You’d better shove off for the mo. while I deal with this blighted relation” and he inched a corresponding eyebrow upward, which I interpreted as “Right-ho, sir, I’d be happy to oblige in the old feudal spirit” or perhaps “Very good, sir.”

“Very good, sir,” he murmured, gliding away.

As for August, he merely strode into his sitting room, shoved a cummerbund and pair of spats off a chaise lounge, and flung himself onto it in a world-weary way.

“So, August!” I said, gingerly levitating a greasy plate off a chair. “How are things with you, old bean?”

“As I’ve told you about a thousand times, my name is not AUG-ust. It’s Au-GUST,” my cousin replied in his usual dulcet tones, levitating over a bottle and sloshing a goodly amount of the drink of the vine into a dirty glass.

“Oh yes? Well, August—” I thought I heard him grind his teeth, but he tossed back the drink without replying. “Aunt Agate sent me to look in on you. Seemed to think you were in a spot of bother.”

“A spot of bother? A spot of bother?  My life is ruined, that’s all! RUINED!”

“Oh, is it? What seems to be the prob.?”

“The ‘prob.’ is that a common WENCH of a unicorn has made me the laughingstock of all Canterlot!”

This rang a bell in the old noggin. “Something to do with the Gala, wasn’t it? And a seamstress?”

“I suppose you’ve heard about it. I suppose every pony in Equestria has heard about it.” He hid his face in his hooves, which was frankly an improvement. “That boorish filly turned on me like a rabid raccoon, and after I deigned to grace her with my royal presence all evening!”

“What does that mean, exactly? Did she bite you? Knock over your rubbish bin?”

He lifted his eyes, his visage both grim and, I would venture, haunted. “Is that a joke?”

“Not at all, not at all! I’m just trying to decipher what actions this unicorn took against your royal person, August.”

“Au-GUST!” he snapped. “She threw most of a cake at me,” he added in a sulky tone.

“Oh dear.”

He looked at me narrowly. “What was that?”

“Nothing, nothing. Just wrinkling my muzzle. I had an itch,” I explained, “on my nose.”

“It looked like a smile.”

“Definitely not, old thing. Just an itch.” I scratched my nose. “So this unicorn girl biffed a cake at you. A bit embarrassing, but surely nothing to be hiding in your room about a month later?”

“I’m not hiding! I don’t have anything to be embarrassed about!” He leapt to his hooves, wobbled on them a bit, and collapsed back onto the chaise lounge, burying his nose in the cushions. “It wasn’t my fault! I’m an innocent victim of circumstance! If that stupid Rarity hadn’t—”

“Wait a moment.” I held up a hoof. “Did you say Rarity? Not the same one who helped Great-Aunt Celly fix the sun last summer when it was determined to stay forever dimmed and dead? Well, well, you had a cake thrown at you by a national hero. You should’ve sold it or framed it or something.”

August replied with some heated words about the lady which I won’t repeat. The gist was that he did not care two figs if she personally rolled the sun across the sky each day (which is of course nonsense since every pony knows the Princess moves it about with her horn), he considered her personality deeply and fatally flawed.

“So where does the seamstress come in?”

“She was the seamstress, you idiot. She... works.”  He shuddered. “Can you believe it? A mere tradespony treating me so shamefully! But worst part, the worst part, Birdy, is how everypony looks at me now.” He emptied the rest of the bottle into his glass and stared into its depths as though he’d lost a contact in it.

“How do you mean? Who looks at you?”

“Everypony.” He swayed slightly, like a pony put under a hypnotist’s power at a street fair. I half expected him to start flapping his front legs and clucking like a chicken, but instead he just continued in the same mesmerized tone. “Lady Roster and Duke Finch-Freely and Lord Spoon... all of them. Last week Duchess Carnation caught me in the hall and told me she hoped she would continue to see me at the annual Winter Ball.”

“Oh yes?”

“And then she smirked at me.”

“Oh yes?”

“I could tell what she REALLY meant!”

“Oh yes?”

“I’m so glad you dropped by, Birdy. If any of my enemies spot me I can push you into their path and make a getaway while you babble ‘oh yes?’ at them.”

I gave my brow a bit of a furrow. “What enemies?”

“Haven’t you been listening? They’re all circling around me,” he intoned, staring into the distance with one bloodshot eye twitching, “Circling around me like sharks...”

My eyebrows climbed towards the heavens. Twitching, bloodshot eyes are rarely a good sign, partic. when combined, as in this case, with mumbling and a slight rocking motion.

“Sharks...” my princely cousin continued to mutter, proving my point nicely. “Sharks... sharks...” His eyes refocused to catch me boggling at him and he rather abruptly drew himself up and cleared his throat in a self-conscious sort of way. “Er-HEM. But I... I have everything perfectly under control, of course. I’m fine. Fine.”

“Come off it, cousin. I can see you’re in straits of the direst variety.”

“I am not!  Just because the Princess—” He snapped his mouth shut, clearly wishing he could reel his last words back into the larynxal regions.

“What about the Princess?” I prompted.

“Nothing.” He heaved himself up and started pacing with a heavy tread.  “Nothing.”

“How can I help you if you don’t—Oh now, put the bottle down, August! You’re getting  positively sloshed.”

“Good.”

“Isn’t that against the... code of princely dignity or somesuch?”

“None of your business.”

“Well, getting juiced up isn’t going to help you any.” I had a brief but vivid vision of Aunt Agate breathing fire at me for letting her son drink himself into an early grave. “Come on, August—”

“Au-GUST!”

“—I am trying to lend a helping hoof here!”

“Ha! YOU!” He added an offensive sort of sneer to the word.  “Why Mumsy sent you, of all ponies, I can’t begin to imagine. You aren’t even titled!”

His demeanor, not to mention sheer ingratitude, put my back up. “I don’t have to be titled to bally well know the Council’s voting next week!” I returned with vigor.

“So what! I still have time to turn things arou—” He stopped in mid-sentence. “Wait, you know about that?”

“I certainly do,” I said with haughty dignity. Perhaps I was still a bit fogged on exactly what they were voting on, but that was beside the point.

The info seemed to give my cousin pause. “I didn’t know you followed the Council’s doings, Birdy,” he said slowly.

“Ah yes,” I said in stately tones, raising a hoof to my chest . “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, August.”

His brows lowered and his eyes, not to be outdone, narrowed. “Apparently.”

The way he was staring at me was putting an unpleasant itch between my shoulders. His manner was reminiscent of a guard dog asking itself “friend or foe?”, just at the point when it seems to be leaning towards the “foe” side of things. We Roosters are bold ponies, but we know when to make an exit. I got to my hooves and strode solemnly doorward. “Well, I must be going now, August, but I hope you will give serious thought to my words.”

“Oh, I will,” he said, brow still scrunched and eyes following me in the manner of that unpleasant species of painting that roosts in gloomy manor houses.

As I made my way down the hall, trying to work out my next step, I turned a sharp corner and ran right into a pony.  As luck, or rather the opposite of luck, would have it, the pony in question was once again Duke Sun Shimmer, the yellow unicorn.

“Ow! Watch it!” He caught a good look at me. “You again?”

Princette Snow Shimmer paced up—either she’d been walking a ways behind her brother or she’d been pulled to the scene by some mysterious force that alerted her when her sibling was in an embarrassing sitch. “Once again my brother makes an impression on a poor, innocent bystander,” she said to the hallway at large before turning to me. “So sorry; he’s such a clumsy pony. Of course it takes a great degree of grace to be a princette, but relatively little to be a mere duke—”

“He’s the clumsy one!” Duke Shimmer snapped, pointing at self.

“Sorry about that, old chap,” I said, pulling myself to my hooves. “Got a lot on my mind, what?”

“Tchah!” the colt responded, turning to prance off.

“Wait! Wait a moment, if you please!” Here was a chance to get some info from somepony who wasn’t pickled to the gills. “You two belong to the Council, don’t you?”

“Of course we do,” Snow Shimmer said, reaching up to primp her curls.

“What about it?” said the duke.

“Well. I was wondering... about that vote next week...”

Have you ever seen one of those pictures that shows an old pony wearing a bonnet if you look at it one way and a young maiden with her snout in a lily if you squint at it another way?  The conversational equivalent occurred at this juncture. I let the end of my sentence trail away simply because I’d run out of info. But the Shimmer siblings squinted their eyes—metaphorically speaking—and interpreted Birdsong’s further lack of speech as a “lapse into a meaningful silence.” That is my theory, anyway, bolstered by the way their ears pricked and the knowing looks they threw at each other, then hurtled in my direction.

“I see,” the lavender filly said with a smirk.

Her brother didn’t look so pleased about it, whatever “it” might be;  in fact, he was giving me something of a scowl. “You?  I haven’t seen you at the meetings. Are you one of the knights? Who are you?”

“Well, I’m—”

“He’s nobody. Just some orphan,” Snow Shimmer said, studying her hoof in a critical way. “A relation of Blueblood’s, according to Equestrian Peerage.”

“Hoy!” My jaw unhinged itself at the pure cheek of this remark. Technically accurate in some aspects, perhaps, but I mean really! REALLY!

The duke was either better schooled in etiquette or—more probably—quick to pick up on my reaction.

“Oh ho ho, who’s lacking in manners and tact NOW? ‘Just some orphan’, what a charming way to describe somepony.” Sun Shimmer’s triumphant expression melted into one of sorrow as he turned towards me. “You must excuse my dear sister... She has a rare medical condition; she was born without feelings.”

“I was not!” the princette hissed, turning red. “I was merely stating a known fact available to anypony resourceful enough to pick up a book and—”

“It was always annoying putting up with her, but lately she’s become absolutely insufferable. Mother and Father are thinking about putting her in some kind of asylum.”

“ERGH!” Princette Snow Shimmer turned on her heel and stalked down the hall, the flounces in her dress, well, flouncing.

The duke, however, remained, giving me a speculative look like one wondering if the rather weedy looking racing-pony that the stablecolt swears is hot stuff can really win the Derby. “Are you really one of the Bluebloods?”

“No, I am bally well not.” I drew myself up. “I happen to belong to the noble and laurelled House of Rooster. The aforementioned prince is merely my cousin.”

“Well, I’d avoid him if I were in your horseshoes. He’s not a pony you want to be associated with right now.”

“Why not?” I asked, assuming there was more behind this than the obvious fact that August was a bit of a blister.

Duke Sun Shimmer gave a chuckle and a shake of his head. “Go to the feast tonight. You’ll see.” And away he trotted, still chortling to himself.

“Curiouser and curiouser!” I said to myself. Because, after all, you can’t go wrong with the classics.

Next chapter:  The return of Lyra and Bon Bon!

Chapter 5: Loose Lips Sink (Relation)ships

Chapter 5:  Loose Lips Sink (Relation)ships

“What-ho, Greaves,” I greeted the earth pony as I wandered in.

“Good afternoon, sir. Did you have an informative visit with Prince Blueblood?”

“Oh, absolutely. I learned that he’s determined to keep shut up in his room drinking himself to death, that he has no appreciation for his cousin Birdsong, and that he will glower at well-meaning ponies who offer to help him.” I tossed myself into a chair. “But if you mean did I gather any useful information, I’m afraid it was a bust.”

“I am sorry to hear that, sir.”

“If you ask me, he’s gone off his nut; he was yammering about sharks half the time, with eyes bloodshot and a-twitching. And what will Aunt Agate’s reaction be, I ask you, when I send her a message beginning ‘Sorry to inform you your only son has fewer marbles than advertised’?”

“Indeed, sir, one imagines she would be less than jubilant.”

“About the only useful tidbit I got out of my princely relation was that his troubles started at the Grand Galloping Gala, where he was shoved into a cake by none other than—”

“Miss Rarity, sir?”

“Ha! Quite. How did you know?”

“I have been pursuing my own sources in the Servants’ Hall, sir, though I must confess I first heard that particular tale quite soon after our arrival. It is a favourite to be told after dinner when the staff is in a light, cheerful mood.”

“Do tell! August was rather reticent about the turn of events.”

“Understandable, sir, as the tale does not portray him in a flattering light. It seems Prince Blueblood met the young lady at the Gala and invited her to accompany him for the evening. He made several less than chivalrous faux pas—for example, dropping her shawl on a puddle to avoid getting his hooves wet, rather than merely walking around it. But the coup de grace occurred when an eight layer apple cake was accidentally launched into the air. The prince saw it bearing down in his direction and, I am sorry to say, pushed Miss Rarity forward and used her as a blockade.”

“Good heavens, Greaves!”

“Yes, sir. The young lady was distressed.”

“No wonder!”

“She proceeded to vent her feelings loudly while transferring a good deal of frosting onto the prince’s person.”

“Well, well, well. That makes a good deal more sense than the version I wrung out of August.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“He made it sound like she was hurtling baked goods around for a bit of light entertainment.”

“No, sir.”

“Mmm. All the same, this knowledge does little to assist us with the Blueblood crisis, which is beginning to look rather hopeless, in my humble o.. I mean to say, if he refuses to do anything but sit on his rump clutching a bottle to his chest...”

“Very true, sir.”

“I ran into a hot-and-cold pair of the gentry who indicated some sort of feast was being prepared—”

“Yes sir, a state dinner. According to the castle’s domestic staff, Princess Celestia herself will be present. It may be informative for you to attend, sir.”

“You think I should crash the party?”

“I’m sure that will not be necessary. I will have a word with the butler; undoubtedly he can find room for you on the guest list.”

“Excellent. I say, you didn’t come up with any ideas about that ruddy blanket Aunt Dahlia keeps harping on about, did you?”

“It is still my opinion attempting to purloin the Border Blanket would be a grave mistake, sir. But should you wish to attempt it, I did discover that only two ponies guard the museum at night. By chance, the guards currently assigned to this task are the very two who stood outside the armoury room when we first toured the building, Silent Vigil and Seeker by name.”

“The glowering grey unicorn and his more chipper, though equally grey, compatriot? But they were there during the day when we saw them.”

“The guards rotate shifts every few weeks, sir—from day shift to night shift.”

“Ah, I see.” An idea struck. “I say, Greaves, you couldn’t drop a word in their ears, could you?”

“Sir?”

“You know—pal around with them and hint that they should take a night off. Like with these butlers and cooks and things you’re so chummy with.”

“That would not be productive, sir, and would only arouse their suspicions.”

“You don’t think it would appeal to their finer feelings—the plea of one servant to another?”

“I would not describe them as servants, sir,” Greaves corrected in a rather emphatic tone, if emphatic is the word I mean. “They are guards.”

“Well, yes, but if you think about it, aren’t they a kind of—?”

“No, sir.”

I recognized a brick wall when I saw it, and one had definitely been mortared in front of further conversation on this subj.. “Ah. Not part of the guild in your opinion, eh Greaves?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, you know best on the matter, of course. I shall just have to think of some other way.”

“To return to the subject of the feast... with your permission, sir, I would like to join the castle servants in catering the event.”

“Try your hoof at a bit of waitering and catering, you mean?”

“Precisely, sir.”

“Fine, fine,” I said I as I opened the wardrobe and ran an eye over the contents. “An extra pair of eyes may well come in usef—”

“Not that dinner jacket, sir. If I might suggest this one, which has a cleaner cut.”

“Oh... quite. Yes, by circulating amongst the gentry, we may well discover—”

“Not that bow tie, sir.”

“Confound it, Greaves! Why not this bow tie?”

“It produces an unpleasing effect when taken in conjunction with your hair, sir. There is a clash.”

“But they must match. I mean, the tie’s blue and my hair’s blue, how could they—”

“Clashing shades of blue, sir. If I might instead suggest a deep burgundy—”

And so on.

When Greaves had critiqued my mode of dress to his satisfaction (which involved a brief but passionate argument over which handkerchief was “appropriate for a gentlecolt at a state dinner”), I left the evening clothes lying on my bed in readiness and—it being merely afternoon at this point—decided to stroll into downtown Canterlot and see if I couldn’t pick up another novel.

After browsing about the bookstore, I settled on Mystery at Mustang Manor.   The front cover featured a goblet with steam roiling off it in the shape of a skull and a Whinndeyian blowpipe and a ruby necklace lying in a pool of blood. I mean to say, if that doesn’t promise quality reading then what does?

I paid the filly at the front counter the approp. number of bits and stepped out into the sunshine. When a glance down the street revealed that I was only half a block away from the shoe-shaped Satin Slipper Sweet Shoppe, my pal Plinker’s problems came back to me.

How was she doing, I wondered, and would I need to be present for that whole “Birdsong is a rake and scoundrel” act or could she pass it off to her parents as a soliloquy, as it were? I decided to drop by the S. S. S. Shoppe to see if she was on the premises goggling into Bon Bon’s eyes. To the pink and white takeout window I went.

“What-ho, Bon Bon!” I said, for none other was standing inside by the cash register. She was looking a bit frazzled, a few strands of pink and blue hair making a bid for freedom from her coiffure.

Nevertheless, she hoisted a smile onto her face. “Oh, hi. It’s Birdy, right? What’ll it be?”

“Well, I suppose I could do with a box of chocolate covered cherries, as long as I’m here,” I pushed some bits towards her. “But chiefly I was wondering if Plinker—that is to say, Lyra—is about anywhere.”

Her forehead furrowed. “I was about to ask you the same thing. I haven’t seen her in days. I hope she’s not sick.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about her.” I waved a hoof airily. “Probably being shoved facefirst into a pile of cakes and dresses by her parents. But I imagine she’ll get a respite from all that soon enough, and about time too, what?”

Bon Bon added some new furrows to her collection. “I don’t understand. Dresses? Cakes?”

“You know. For the engagement.”

She gave a polite laugh. “But Lyra’s parents don’t know we’re engaged.”

“Well, no, of course not that engagement, the other one. The one to...” Sudden, terrible misgivings welled up as I faced Bon Bon's gaze—equal parts puzzlement and inquisitiveness, with just a dash of suspicion thrown in. “...to sing,” I managed to croak out.

“What?”

“An engagement to sing at... the Londun Opera House,” I said, mentally grasping at the familiar venues of my homeland. It was sheer luck that I didn’t say she’d be kicking up her heels at the Gilded Gaskin Cabaret or the Mottled Oyster Club. “Yes, back in the merry old UQ. A fancy black tie affair, very posh. So of course she needed a dress of the appropriate caliber.”

Suspicion had definitely come home to roost on Bon Bon’s visage. “And the cakes?”

“The cakes? Oh yes, the cakes! For afterwards. Makes you dashed hungry, singing. I remember one time Lala Blossom dared me to sing Minnie the Moocher six times straight through while standing on my head and by the time I finished—”

Minnie the Moocher was cutting no ice with Bon Bon. “She didn’t say anything about it to me and she always tells me about her performances. I collect,” she said in a deadly sort of tone, “the programmes.”

“Well, ah, well, perhaps she—”

“Prince Birdsong!”

I turned around despite the fact that the air had turned to molasses.

A dark pink unicorn stallion with green and blue hair was striding towards me. I had never met Plinker’s father before, but I had no doubt this was he. First, because he had rather the same colour and choppy style of mane as Plinker. Second, because he had a bugle cutie mark, which would explain where Plinker had inherited her musical prowess. Third, because Plinker’s mother was hurrying after him.

“Now Reveille, dear,” Mother Heartsong hissed at her b. and chain, “We mustn’t disturb the prince. He’s very sensitive about his privacy!”

“Nonsense,” Pa Heartsong boomed. “Prince Birdsong doesn’t mind having a little chat, do you, Prince?”

“Oh goodness, I didn’t know you were a prince,” Bon Bon’s voice floated from behind me, dashing all hopes that she had left, fainted, or been struck unconscious by a falling box of chocolates in the few seconds since I’d turned my back.

“Oh, rather,” I stuttered out, answering both questions in one go.

Some say Fate is the cruelest nemesis a pony faces in this world. I will not deny that it has a nasty habit of dealing a solid thump in the ribs to a pony who has already tripped over a cobblestone, fallen into a scorpion pit, and accidentally stepped between an Ursa Major and her Minor variant.

But I still maintain that Hindsight is worse. Because when Fate deals you a sharp blow to the head, you can stare skyward, shake your hoof, and curse the gods... but when Hindsight rears its ugly head, you find yourself staring in utter disgust at your past self while uttering futile cries of “if only!”.

Take my previous bit of dialogue, for example. “Oh, rather.” It was completely the wrong tack to take. What I should’ve done was leveled the Heartsongs with a haughty stare, drawn myself up, and said, “Jolly right I don’t like to be disturbed, so leg it out of here as quickly as your hooves will carry you, you nosey blighters.”

But alas, I was too frosted over with panic to think of that until later. Like a snake frozen by an approaching bird—or rather, the other way ‘round—I watched the Heartsongs approach.

“Well, I suppose we could chat for a minute,” Ma Heartsong said as she sailed up.

“Certainly we can!” Sir Heartsong bellowed into my ear—a rather deaf old coot, I think—as he slapped me rather too hard on the back. “I’m sure this young buck is itching to meet his future father-in-law!”

The silence from the take-out window behind me changed from the normal “watching with detached interest” version to more of a “deadly leopard crouched behind you in the steaming jungle preparing to strike” style of thing.

“Oh, quite!” I said, praying to be turned into a tree or snatched up by an eagle or offered some other avenue of escape like the chaps in mythology are always stumbling upon.

“You and Lyra make such a lovely couple,” Dame Heartsong said, digging my grave a bit deeper.

“Oh, yes?” I could feel two blue eyes boring into me from behind.

“It seems you have another admirer, Prince Birdsong,” Sir Heartsong chortled as he put a hoof around my shoulder and turned me around. Apparently he had mistaken Bon Bon’s look of frozen enmity for girlish adoration. I can only theorize the old stallion was blind as well as deaf, since Bon Bon’s visage looked like it would shortly be issuing forth peals of thunder and bolts of lightning.

“Sorry, girly, this one’s taken!” Pa Heartsong added;  despite his playful tone this remark did not visibly lighten the filly’s mood. I wouldn't swear that steam began pouring from her ears, nor would I swear that it didn’t.

Unlike her mate, Ma Heartsong did not take such a jovial view of the situation. With a stiff frown she said, “Please do not STARE at the prince, girl. He does not appreciate being gawked at by commoners.”

“Of course not,” Bon Bon said in tones that would have made a polar bear shiver and toss a few more logs on the fire. She slapped a box down on the counter. “Your cherry cordials, your highness. I’m sure Miss Lyra will... will LOVE them!” And with that a flood of tears broke over the dam and she ran into the depths of the sweet shop.

“Right-ho,” I said miserably to nopony in partic., stuffing the box in my saddlebags.

“What an extraordinary girl,” Dame Heartsong said, staring after the unfortunate waitress.

“Chocolate fumes cause hysterics. Well known fact.” Sir Heartsong nodded several times. “I remember once when I was in school I broke into a cocoa factory on a dare and—”

The female of the species must have decided this particular tale was unfit for princely ears, because she said, “Well, we must be going now, your highness. Right now. Come along, Reveille.”

“Goodbye, young fellow!”

“Toodle-pip,” I returned, but my heart wasn’t in it. You didn’t have to be the brainiest of ponies to see that this little scene had thrown a hefty spanner into the workings of Bon Bon and Plinker’s engagement.

As I stood looking at the empty take-out window, wondering whether dropping in for a quick word of explanation would do more harm than good, Fate played one of its jolly little gags by sending Plinker herself trotting up to me.

“Birdy, hi! Or should I say what-ho?” She chuckled.

“Oh, what-ho old thing!” I said, wheeling around to face her and hurriedly pasting on a smile. “How... how are things?”

“Well, Mother dragged me off to Fence and shoved me into about a hundred bridal shops, which was unbelievably tedious. But now she’s finally moved on to the next stage of her plans, namely bragging to everypony she knows. That should keep her occupied for weeks.” She clapped her hooves together. “And I can finally get back to my sugary sweet Bon Bon. Yay!”

“Plinker.” I hardly knew where to begin.

“What’s wrong, Birdy? You look like somepony just bonked you over the head with a two-by-four. ”

“Plinker,” I tried again, only to get hung up on her name.

She waited, looking at me. But I had stalled.

I gave it another go. “Plinker.”

“Birdy, I’m really sorry but I’ve been gone all week and I’ve just GOT to see Bon Bon right now. I’m just so excited!” More clapping. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

And while I stood there numbly, she toddled off into the candy shop. Her tail disappeared through the door and there was a moment of silence before muffled howls of rage and the crash of breaking china began issuing from the interior. That was all it took for the instincts of self-preservation to awaken my muscles and ligaments, and I strove for home at a rapid pace.

It took a bit for my panic to settle into mere malaise;  I trudged down the avenue with a weary gait, wondering if Lyra could calm down her sweetheart and hoping that Bon Bon wouldn’t loose a cobra into my room at night, like the homicidal gardener in The Mystery of the Pink Cupcake.

I could picture the scene quite clearly... Self, lying pale on the floor—well, my coat’s pale to begin with, but pale and lifeless is what I’m trying to get across—next to the sinister, hissing snake while Bon Bon, with mud on her hooves and a battered felt hat on her head, let out a coarse chuckle. The garden would be empty at that midnight hour; no one would see her shoving a suspiciously large burlap sack into the deep, deep hole that she had dug “fer ta plant a pear tree fer tha missus.”

And then in the morning Aunt Dahlia—supposing she was visiting Canterlot for some reason—would wonder aloud where her favourite nephew was, and Great-Aunt Celly would reply, “You know, Aunt, I mean Niece Dahlia, I was wondering the same thing. Where could the dear boy be?” And months later, when pale white roses bloomed on that very spot—atop the hole, I mean—Great-Aunt Celly would pick a bloom and sigh sadly and a single tear would run down Aunt Dahlia’s cheek, or perhaps vice versa—

“Ow!” yelped a voice, just as I walked straight into something prickly at chest level.

“Oh, sorry,” I said, jumping back.

“It’s okay,” said the bush.

Next chapter:  Conversations with, in, and about shrubbery!

Chapter 6: The Tangled Webs We Weave

Chapter 6:  The Tangled Webs We Weave

I confess, I was perplexed to discover a piece of vegetation chattier than your average begonia.  “I say!  Did you speak?”

The shrubbery remained mute, though it rustled a bit.  I gave it a tentative poke, but it was one of those nasty, scratchy junipers that get plunked into the earth when the gardener has run out of ideas. Such shrubs are apt to poke back.

I learned this the hard way as a little nipper when I leapt into one such bush to avoid Uncle Pom, who had just chased me a country mile uttering dire threats. (An innocent misunderstanding, certainly with minimal wrongdoing on my part. I knew silver was meant to be polished with something from a tin and I happened upon a tin of bootblack. Gave the silver armour quite a patina and also left my hooves stained for over a fortnight.)

Thinking along those lines, I concluded somepony was imitating my childhood subterfuge and hiding in the mess of branches. My thoughts immediately sprang to Ma Heartsong—she who so enjoyed peeking around trees with opera glasses—but I couldn’t see what motive she would have, being so solidly in the pro-Rooster camp at the moment.  All was oojah-cum-spiff between Plinker’s parents and myself—despite the fact that a little animosity between us would have made my life easier.

Bon Bon, it suddenly occurred to me, was a much more likely candidate. I wasn’t sure how she could’ve headed me off (I’d been heading back towards the castle at a healthy clip), but then again I wasn’t sure how she’d been able to make miniature lightning bolts shoot across her eyes either. The thought of her suddenly leaping out with eyes blazing and teeth bared was enough to make me shy back from the vegetation with considerable vigor.

Unfortunately I shied right into a passerby.

“Ow!” came a familiar cry as we collided, crashing to the cobblestones. With a certain sense of resignation, I discovered Duke Sun Shimmer was once again the other party in the pile-up.

“You again!” he cried, coming to the same conclusion as he untangled his legs from mine. “Can’t a pony walk anywhere without you barging into them like an equine cannonball?!”

There are times for haughty dignity and there are times to put as much distance as possible between self and a homicidal filly theoretically secreted in the scenery. I hardly spared the time to toss out a “Sorry, old chap” before setting a north-nor’westerly bearing away from the bush and the downed duke.

Something like a mountain abruptly swung into my path. “HEY YOU!  Stop right there!”

I reeled. I’m one of those leggy chaps, used to getting a good view of the top of ponies’ scalps unless they happen to be standing on a chair, but in this case I had to tilt my head back—and keep tilting it—to get a look at this newcomer’s map. He was a sort of light yellow colour—fawn, I think it’s called—with a sweep of reddish-brown hair hanging over a very noticeable scowl.

“Ah, now, look—” I backed up a few steps, allowing me to get a better view of my current obstacle. In short, he was an earth pony built along the lines of those burly ponies you see on the covers of magazines lifting barbells with their hooves or ripping books in half with their teeth.

“No, you look,” he growled, looming like an expert and eyeing me as though I were a particularly recalcitrant book just begging to be split from its binding. “You’ve got thirty seconds to give back my pal’s money before I pound you into the cobblestones.”

“Money? But I don’t... Look here, I don’t know anything about any money!” I protested, backpedaling right into Sun Shimmer. The blazingly yellow unicorn let out an irritable hiss—rather like a tea kettle just before it reaches the whistling stage—and pushed my hindquarters out of his way.

“He’s not a pickpocket, Bench,” he said. “Just an idiot.”

“He’s not? Are you sure?” The newly identified Bench sounded disappointed, although I cannot truthfully say my heart bled for him. “Check your saddlebags at least,” he urged, clinging to a faint glimmer of hope. “Some of these lowlifes are quick as snakes.”

The Duke shrugged and levitated a money pouch out of his saddlebags before letting it drop back in with a clink. “Like I said, just a damn nuisance. Keeps springing out of nowhere and knocking me down.”

Bench gave me a dark look, perhaps mentally berating me for not being embroiled in a life of crime. “I keep telling you that you need to work out more, Sun.” He looked me up and down with a critical eye. “Look at those toothpick legs. He’d never knock me off my hooves.”

Well, frankly I felt this was an unfair way to assess physical prowess; probably the only thing that could’ve levered Bench off his feet was a bad batch of protein drinks. But I refrained from airing this opinion, ignored the utterly uncalled for personal remarks, and took a reasonable tone.

“Now look, do you think I’m happy about smacking into you right and left, Duke Shimmer? It takes two to collide, you know. And in this case I was busy trying to reconnoiter—if reconnoiter is the word I want—this bush.”

The Duke blinked. “What bush?”

I looked behind me and found I was gesturing at empty space.  “Good heavens!  It’s gone!”

“Gone?” Bench stared at where the bush wasn’t.

“It must have vacated while I was distracted,” I said, tapping my chin thoughtfully.

“You’re out of your mind, aren’t you?” The Duke looked mildly impressed. “Come on, Bench, let’s get out of here before he starts frothing at the mouth.”

“I assure you I’m not—oh fine, be that way!” I snorted haughtily as they retreated down the street. As for the Duke’s slurs, I modeled my response on the deaf adder which—and mark this well, for such knowledge landed me the Mythological Knowledge prize at school—refused to heed the snake charmer, “charm he never so wisely.” Though in Sun Shimmer’s case there was a distinct lack of charm and a surplus of crassness. As for wisdom, I will remain tactfully silent on the subj., an adder that is not only deaf but mute besides.

Turning back to the spot that the bush had lately occupied, I saw it had left naught but a few evergreen needles. On the one hoof, the shrub’s absence lessened the chance that Bon Bon would be targeting me with Whinneydian blow darts dipped in rare and undetectable poisons. On the other hoof, it was disturbing to think the flora in question had slyly slipped away without me noticing. That being the case, couldn’t it conceivably sneak up on me with equal ease? That was what I asked myself.

I was just about to shake the dust of the marketplace off my hooves and point myself castleward once more when I caught a bit of movement out of the corner of my eye. There was a small park on my left, littered with the usual kind of things—a small fountain, park benches, and a minor pond replete with ducks. It was the ducks that had actually caught my attention, as they were massing at one end of the pond, quacking irritably as their tails waggled in an altogether indignant manner.

My gaze travelled to the other end of the pond—the duck-free zone, as it were—where a large bush was shoved right up to the water’s edge. In fact, one might say it was more in the water than out. As I saw it shudder and try to regain the shore, I realized this was in fact the unusually mobile specimen I had encountered in the street.

Well, my first inclination was to leg it out of there before it attacked. But as the bush surged miserably about the edge of the pond—there was a little drop-off of a few feet and it couldn’t quite make its way out—I noticed that the hooves scrabbling at the grass were a shade of dark grey. This put both Bon Bon and Ma Heartsong out of the running, their coats being cream and green respectively. Feeling curious and not a little relieved at this revelation, I trotted over to investigate.

“You look like you could use a helping hoof,” I said, lighting up the old unicorn magic. I don’t say it was an elegant operation; levitating large objects isn’t my forte. But between my efforts and the scrambling of the pony in the vegetation, the juniper bush and its passenger reached dry land.

“Gee, thanks.” With an audible sigh of relief, the juniper began disassembling itself, starting by uncapping what appeared to be a helmet with branches thickly bunched around it. This revealed the head of a dark grey unicorn, his white and grey mane standing in that gravity-defying style known as a mohawk. I had seen both the hair style and the colour combination many times before; without a doubt this was one of the Royal Guards.

I took a few steps back. While I wasn’t (much as Bench might have wished it) a hardened criminal, nevertheless I did not fancy having a gendarme hanging about at a time when Aunt Dahlia was haranguing me to pocket priceless artifacts as though I was Raffles the gentlecolt thief or Professor Snortiarty. Though my conduct up to this point had been law-abiding and blameless, it was unnerving having a guard-pony popping up like the demon king in a pantomime.

“I say! Were you following me?” I blurted out, agitation getting the better of me.

“What? N-no!  I wasn’t... that is... Duke Shimmer!” the Guard said in a babble.

“Oh, was he your target?” Not only did this information soothe and relax me, but so did the grey unicorn’s guilty conscience, evident in the way he pawed the ground and let his eyes roll to and fro—all the hallmarks of a pony caught doing something he should not. “And what has the miscreant duke been up to?” I continued in a cheerier tone. “Tying maidens to train tracks? Cheating on his tax forms?”

The Guard drew himself up, which left him shorter than me by, if not a half a head, then at least four-tenths of one. “Excuse me—”

“Certainly.”

“—but Duke Shimmer would never do such a thing!”

“Which thing, the taxes or the—?”

“Either of them!” He went so far as to stomp a hoof. “He’s an absolute paragon of virtue!”

“Is he?” I said, surprised.

“He’s intelligent, good-natured, and noble!”

“Really?” I mentally replayed my meetings with Sun Shimmer to date. It seemed to me that they all followed a similar pattern... a slight mishap on my part, followed by ranting, raving, and rudeness on the part of the Duke, and the curtain rolling down as he pranced away with his nose tilted firmly towards the firmament. It was hard to see where “good-natured” fit into this. “Are you sure you’re thinking of the right pony?”

“Of course I am!”

“A bit on the short side, rather garish colour scheme?”

The Royal Guard positively bridled. “It’s not garish!  It’s beautiful!”

“We-ell...”

“Like a sunset, aglow with gold and crimson!”

“Oh, ah?”

“Blessing all the world with its gilded hue for a brief hour before leaving only the ache of memory!”

“Ah ha!”

He pawed the ground again in a gesture somewhere between embarrassment and irritation. “What d’you mean, ‘ah ha’?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing.”

I was lying through my teeth, of course. The fact was, the gods had not been idle when it came to targeting various friends of mine with the arrows of love—tipped with aphrodisiacs harvested from rare tropical frogs, no doubt—and I recognized the love-light in a pony’s eyes when I saw it.

And, not to put too fine a point on it, the love-light was blazing like billy-o in this instance. This keeper of the peace was clearly as soppy about Duke Sun Shimmer as any pony who ever put quill to parchment and scribbled out a maudlin love poem.

“Well, well, the Duke. Nice fellow,” I said idly, still playing fast and loose with the truth.

“He’s amazing,” the Guard said fervently. “Just... just... just amazing.”

“Yes. I...” I hesitated, searching for a believable compliment. “I quite like his mane.”

“Oh, I know!” He nodded so rapidly his head was a blur. “So shiny, so silky, so vibrant!  Isn’t he fantastic? And intellectual, too!  He’s got poetry in his soul!”

I gazed pityingly at the poor chump. I should have left it there, really, but morbid curiosity made me inquire, “And his eyes?”

As expected, the Guard had nothing but approval for Sun Shimmer’s eyes. He started off by favorably comparing them to emeralds, then dropped the mineral theme in favor of vegetable as he explained they were also like soft, new spring grass. The duke’s eyes also turned out to be as verdant as deep, still waters, as the forest at night, and, mystifyingly, “as any privet-hedge.” They were as green as quite a lot of other things too, but by that point I realized I had unwittingly sparked off a long soliloquy and let my attention wander.

It struck me how true that wheeze was about not judging a book by its cover. I mean, I had never thought of the Royal Guards having love interests—having had a vague idea that they spent all their free time playing poker and perhaps holding spitting contests—but even if the possibility had crossed my mind, I would not have expected one of them to let loose with this barrage of poetic devices. Clearly he was not only in love, but also a Romantic.

I have a friend who suffers from the same affliction—Bingo, his name is. (Well... his nickname, at any rate. His real name is one of those that makes one shake the head sadly and wonder what grudge his parents could have held against him as an infant.) Whenever Bingo falls in love, which is about twice weekly, I hear all about it. My other pals, when lovestruck, are fairly succinct. A typical dialogue might go something like this:

LILY “LALA” BLOSSOM:  What-ho, Birdy!

SELF: What-ho, Lala!  You’re gamboling around in a pretty tripsome way today.

LALA:  I’m head over heels with the dishiest colt!

SELF:  Oh yes? What’s he like?

LALA:  He’s an absolute baa-lamb!

SELF: Well, well!  Spiffing!

LALA:  Thanks!  *opens menu*  I think I’ll get the oat cakes, what about you?

SELF:  The salad special, I think.

Short and sweet, you see? The relevant info is shared and then the conversation moves on. Lala does not feel the need to hawk the qualities of her dishy colt like a travelling sales-pony selling hair tonic, nor do I feel the need to inquire what a baa-lamb might be.

Not so with Bingo. The Romantic spirit burns within him, compelling him to ramble about whatever filly is currently enthroned in his heart. This means whenever I see him he’s either rattling off syrupy phrases in praise of his latest crush or mooning about dreamily.

You may recall that this tale kicked off with none other than Bingo hurtling a cue ball at my skull, mistaking it for an orange. When I tell you that it was his aforementioned dreaminess that was responsible for this dreadful bloomer, I think you will understand why—although I love him like a brother—I consider him a hazard to all and sundry. (And this assault on my cranium occurred, I might add, after I had patiently listened to him extolling the virtues of some filly’s hair being “like filaments of gold” and “like ripe wheat gleaming in the sun” for over an hour! There is no justice in this world.)

Well, you wouldn’t have thought it to look at them—the Guard being of monochrome hues while Bingo is such a strong red that he routinely stops traffic—but they were clearly brothers in spirit; I stood in the park for a good long stretch, letting the Guard’s similes wash over me, and whenever I checked in on the conversation he was still expounding on Duke Sun Shimmer’s blasted eyes—which were, I gleaned from his enthusiastic monologue, still green.

But at last he began to run out of objects of that shade. There are, after all, only so many green things in this world.

“Emerald like... a rainbow. Like, you know... the green stripe in it.” The Guard hesitated, no doubt feeling (justly) that this was pretty weak stuff, even for the lovesick.

I took advantage of the lull. “I say!”

“Huh?” He jumped a little; I think he’d forgotten he had an audience. Immediately I wished I had slipped away while he was engrossed, but you know what they say about spilt milk.

“I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced,” I said.

“Oh... I guess not!  My name’s Seeker.”

“Rooster, Birdsong W.” I shook hooves with him, wondering why his name seemed so dashed familiar. “You’re one of Her Majesty’s Royal Guard, I take it.”

“Their Majesties. That’s right. Thanks again for helping me out of the pond.”

“Think nothing of it,” I said courteously. “Not a bad disguise, by the way.”

“Oh, thanks. It was pretty scratchy, though.” He lifted his helmet and began to pick branches off of it.

“You shouldn’t have used a juniper,” I said, happy to share my expertise on this subject. “Evergreens, in general, should be avoided when picking a hideout. A deciduous shrub is the way to go every time. Except in winter,” I added as an afterthought.

Seeker-the-Guard nodded, but rather absently. He was still gazing at his helmet, plucking twigs out of its plume.  “Mr. Rooster—is it 'Mister'?”

I indicated that it was.

“Mr. Rooster, you’ve listened so attentively... I can tell you’re a good pony. You have a kind face.”

Well, this was gratifying and much nicer than some of the things that have been said about my face, I can tell you. Before I could express my appreciation for this sentiment, he went on:

“And that’s why I feel I can trust you with—” he swallowed, “—a most dark and terrible secret.”

My ears pricked up and my whole manner became more animated. The Royal Guards undoubtedly ran into rings of jewel thieves, beautiful but deadly adventuresses, and locked-room murders on a daily basis; anything that could make one of Her Majesty’s Finest shake in his armoured boots was bound to be pretty hot stuff.

“Oh, rather!” I encouraged him. “Do tell! And rest assured, nopony is more trustworthy than a Rooster.”

“Thank you.” The grey unicorn gulped, setting down the helmet. “The fact is, I am...” Another gulp for good measure. “I am in love with Duke Sun Shimmer.”

Well, it was a letdown. I had been expecting a big pay-off involving gangsters or, at the very least, diamonds disguised as rhinestones. That this guard Seeker was dippy about Sun Shimmer should have been obvious to the meanest intelligence, and I found myself worrying for the intellectual capacity of the Canterlot Royal Guards if this was the type of thing that passed for the deepest and darkest of secrets among their ranks.

In short, my disappointment was keen. Several sarcastic phrases came to mind, like ‘No, really?’ and ‘Next you’ll be telling me you’re a unicorn or some rot like that,’ but I bit them back, reminding myself that Romantics have their own burdens to bear and can’t help being melodramatic drips.

“Well, well, you and the Duke. I wouldn’t have thought you’d move in the same circles. Where exactly did you meet him?” I said at last, making a bet with myself.

“We-ell, I’ve never actually met him...”

“Ah.” I mentally collected my winnings. Not only cut from the same cloth as Bingo, but also tailored at the same shop.

“But I first saw him in the museum a month ago,” he continued. “And it was love at first sight. On my end, I mean.”

“Really!” I was surprised—not by the “love at first sight” bit, that was standard fare—but that this unrequited romance had been going strong for a month. Bingo’s usually peter out after three to five days.

“But he doesn’t know I exist,” Seeker continued moodily. “I’m too nervous to talk to him. So I just love him from afar. Very courtly, of course,” he added, brightening. “Nothing is more courtly than loving from afar. I’ve written a ballad about it, would you like to hear it?”

“Ahhhh, hmmm, well, as it happens I have a dashed important appointment that I can't possibly—wait a minute. You saw him at the museum?” In a flash, I realized why his name seemed so familiar. This, according to Greaves, was one of the two guards currently assigned to the night watch at the Royal Museum.

“Oh yeah, I’ve been on museum duty for the past three months,” he said, cinching it. “Not very interesting work.” I must’ve been looking thunderstruck, because he chuckled. “You didn’t recognize me, huh? I was there when you crashed into Vigil. I know he seems kind of rude, but it’s only because that sort of thing happens all the time. Those stairs are a killer.”

“Right. Yes...” Now that I thought about it, I could see the resemblance this pony bore to the more cheerful guard outside the armaments room (understandably, since they were apparently the same pony) although at the time my attention had been focused on his more irritable compatriot. “No, I’m afraid it didn’t strike me until just now. Sorry.”

He shrugged. “Well, we all look pretty similar in the armour. Which is the point, I guess.”

My mind raced down first one path, then another, pondering how this new info might help me snag the blasted Border Blanket. Having raised the wrath of Bon Bon and found Cousin August to be drinking himself into a stupor, I felt it would be nice if at least one of my missions met with success.

“The armour?” I said, to keep the dialogue going.

“Yeah. That’s why we’re all the same colour, you know. Enchanted armour.”

“Ah. Enchanted.” I nodded, still checked out of the conversation.

“Although I’m sort of an anomaly—my natural colours really are grey and white,” he sighed.

“Grey and white.”

“Yeah, but a lighter grey,” he said defensively, drawing himself up. “And my hair’s actually brighter than this.” Then he slumped again. “But even so, the first thought anypony would have about me, even out of uniform, is ‘oh look, it’s a guard.’”

“That,” I said, “is exactly your advantage.” It had taken a while, but the light had dawned. This officer of the law could not be goosestepping around the museum if he were spending the evening elsewhere. Haunting a certain dinner party, for example.

“Huh?”

“You think Sun Shimmer will scorn you, but ask yourself, what will make a pony stand out from the brightly coloured popinjays the Duke’s usually surrounded with? A more neutral palette, that’s what. I advise you to introduce yourself to him at the earliest opportunity.”

“Well...”

“Stand up straight and tall-ish and he’ll be sure to notice your military bearing. The Duke is, I should mention, attending a state dinner tonight. And he is sure to be in a mellow and pleasant mood after the meal.”

“But... no, I just couldn’t. He’s a noble. I'm just a guard.”

I waved his objection aside with an airy smile. “If only you knew, my good fellow, how often these little affairs leap the hurdles of class in the steeplechase of love. Why, one of my best friends is engaged to a waitress!”

“Really?” He drunk this in eagerly. “And it’s going okay?”

“Well.” I hesitated. “Okay-ish, I would say. Okay-ish. The course of true love never did run smooth, you know...”

“Oh, of course not,” he agreed. “Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May!”

I ignored this bizarre aside about flowers. “My point is,” I said, getting to the point, “that you should certainly pony up and talk to the Duke. At the dinner party,” I emphasized, in case he wasn’t getting the message.

“Oh no, I’m on duty tonight. But maybe you’re right, maybe tomorrow morning I’ll—”

“Tomorrow morning may be too late!” I was beginning to feel exhausted. Bingo would have already been laying out his eveningwear by this point; his grey counterpart was certainly harder to direct. A side effect of having a job, I suppose. What a lesson to avoid such distractions. “Who knows what attractive fillies and/or colts will be flaunting their borrowed plumage, trying to catch his eye!”

“I thought you said he was sick of brightly coloured popinjays.”

“He is, but you know how familiarity breeds whats-it.”

He looked confused. “Contempt?”

I closed my eyes, prayed for strength, and decided to take a different tack. “The reason this particular event is so vital to your debut,” I explained, speaking slowly and clearly, “is that I myself will be in attendance and can introduce you to Duke Sun Shimmer personally. In person.”

“And you think that will help?”

“Naturally!  With my letter of recommendation, he will leap at the opportunity to make your acquaintance.”

Seeker paused. “I don’t mean to pry, but... how well do you actually know him?”

“I run into him all the time,” I assured him.

“Because it kind of looked like he was shouting at you, there on the street.”

“Ha ha!  Clearly you did not see the twinkle in his eye as he shot forth those bally rude phrases!  Just a little friendly ribbing on his part, I can assure you. The Duke is, after all, noble and good-natured.”

“He is, isn’t he? And his mane is like—”

“Yes. Yes, it certainly is. So I can expect to see you there?”

“Well...” Duty might call, but ultimately he was a Romantic. “All right. Sure. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Next chapter: Prince Blueblood returns, and a dinner party with an unexpected guest!

Oh my goodness, these chapters always turn out longer than I expect. (Originally everything from the Chapter 5 to the end of the dinner party was supposed to be one chapter, but it kept growing to monstrous lengths.) The next chapter is almost entirely done, so expect it to appear soon.

Chapter 7: Dinner and Chocolates, Not in That Order

Chapter 7: Dinner and Chocolates, Not in That Order

The sun was sinking dangerously close to the horizon as I dashed back to my suite in the castle.  Greaves was waiting by the door in a suit a bit more waiter-y than usual and, while not actually tapping his hoof or glancing at the clock, managed to suggest both these activities in the single, reproachful glance he gave me as I shot in.

“I know, I know,” I said as I dumped my saddlebags on the sofa.  “I would’ve been back sooner, but I was attacked by a vicious pack of similes in the park.”

“Similes, sir?” Greaves said as he followed me into the bedroom, but there was a note of distraction in his voice and he all but dove for the eveningwear laid out on the bed.  No doubt he, like myself, feared Time’s winged chariot was drawing near, about to steam into his hindquarters at full speed.

Now, I’d had a few different valets before; Adder (he who stole my socks) and before him Meadows (who had weepy eyes and a habit of sighing so mournfully that I began to feel like I was living in a funeral parlour—he eventually quit my employ and did actually open one, which I frankly try not to think about), and a few fellows before them who worked under the Rooster banner before leaving to get married or move to the Scotchland or whatnot.  And they each had their own particular style of work, so to speak.

Adder, for example, tossed clothes about in a quick but sloppy manner, had to be chivvied to bother with things like cufflinks and ironing, and furthermore had a habit of muttering uppish things like “Horn’s on the fritz, is it?” whenever I asked him to pick something up.  Meadows, on the other hoof, was thorough enough, but creaked about so slowly that a snail would easily have outpaced him.

Greaves, to my relief, pushed me into the required apparel with smooth efficiency, and without any snippy remarks about levitation.  In fact, my part in the proceedings was limited to raising the correct limb while he flashed about stuffing me into shirts and waistcoats and such.

How earth ponies manage without magic I have no idea, but he was layering on the outer crust of the elegant gentlecolt at such a steady clip that I relaxed, certain that I would arrive at dinner at the appointed hour and have plenty of time to socialize before my coach turned back into a pumpkin.

“I had a rather rummy experience on the way back here, Greaves,” I said as he hurried about.  “I met up with Duke Sun Shimmer—he’s the fellow who tipped me off to that dinner tonight, if you remember—and some friend of his, an earth pony bulging with more muscles than can be strictly healthy to hang off the skeletal frame, accused me of belonging to a ring of pickpockets.”

“Most distressing, sir,” Greaves said, attacking some invisible dust on my tailcoat with a small brush.

“At least, he didn’t actually say ‘ring’, but I imagine that’s what pickpockets run about in, don’t you?  Flocks of sheep, herds of elephants, rings of pickpockets . . .”

“I could not say, sir.”

“Of course I told him in no uncertain terms that I was pure as the driven snow.  I wasn’t about to take that kind of guff, particularly not from a pony ladened with the ridiculous name of Bench.  I mean to say!”

Greaves paused a moment in his ministrations.  “Was the gentlecolt in question a pale yellow with dark hair, sir?”

“Good heavens, you don’t know him?”

“Not personally, sir.  But I strongly suspect the pony in question was Benchmark, the pulling champion.”

“Pulling?”  I was baffled and didn’t try to hide it.  “Pulling what?”

“Weight-pulling, sir, a sport that originated in logging camps, I’m given to understand.  Competitors drag logs—or in modern times iron weights—of greater and greater size until a winner is determined.”

“And you’re a fan of this spectacle?” I refrained from expressing my view that it had to be among the five silliest pastimes in Equestria and certainly no match for a day at the racetrack.

“Not particularly, sir, no. But one of the maids is a great fan of the gentlecolt in question and tried to display posters of him in the Servants’ Hall.”

“Tried?”

“The butler and the housekeeper agreed it was not appropriate décor, sir, and had a Talk with her.”

Well, you could see their point of view.  The rest of the domestics probably didn’t fancy having a glossy of an over-muscled stallion leering over their shoulders while they polished silver or whatever it is they do to pass the time in the Servants’ Hall.  

“Tell her to stick with posters, Greaves.  The real version is lacking.”

“I fear the infatuations of young ponies are hard to shake, sir.”

“Oh, speaking of which . . .”

I filled him in on my run-in with Seeker, the would-be Romeo.  At least, I suppose he would want to be Romeo without the suicide bit at the end of the play.  Although who knows, really.  Once a pony starts writing ballads, all bets are off.

“—so my thought is to introduce the two of them after dinner, then make a run for the museum,” I finished as Greaves kitted me out in spats.

“Quite ingenious, sir.” Greaves sounded mildly surprised, which, given his low-key manner, was probably the equivalent of a regular pony being positively floored. “Might I inquire how you intend to deal with the second guard on duty?”

“Ah, yes. The second guard.  Well, I thought I’d just sort of wing that part.”

“I see, sir.”

“We Roosters think best on the fly, you know.”

“No doubt, sir.”

“It’s our wild, impertinent—no, wait . . . petulant, maybe?”

“Would ‘impetuous’ be the word you’re searching for, sir?”

“That’s the baby!  It’s our wild, impetuous nature.”

“I’m sure that keeps life very interesting, sir.”

“Well, quite.”  The conservation lulled for a bit as he drifted towards the bow ties laid out on the dresser. I thought I’d lend a hoof and brought some telekinesis to bear.

“Not that one, sir,” Greaves said in a kindly tone as I floated a bow tie his direction.

“But we agreed on the burgundy one, surely?”

“The other burgundy, sir.  This one has several loose threads.  I will mend it tomorrow.”

“Oh, right-ho.”  I turned this around in my head as he fussed around my collar with the higher caliber specimen of neckwear.  “Sew it, you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ah.”  I wondered how earth ponies managed to manipulate needle and thread, but refrained from asking.  Secrets of the guild and all that. “Out of curiosity, Greaves, just as a point of interest . . . what would you suggest?  For snookering the other guard, I mean.”

“Well, sir . . . I would capitalize on the fact that he can only be in one place at a time.  If one were to divert his attention towards the front of the building, for example, you might be able to effect an entrance through the back.”

“I say, that’s not bad.  Supposing you went out front, Greaves, and poured a couple of bottles of ketchup about and pretended you’d been hit by a carriage—”

He gave a gentle cough, like a respectable sheep.  “Actually, sir, I think a delivery arriving at the front door would be enough of a distraction.  There is a young porter among the domestic staff who would undoubtedly make such a delivery, for a few bits.”

“Drop a load of groceries into this guard’s hooves, you mean?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a large vase, sir, such as the one in the sitting room. Heavy, yet fragile. Moving such an item would take some time.”

“And they must get that sort of thing bunged on the museum doorstep all the time,” I said, realization dawning.  “I say, Greaves, that’s a rather masterful scheme!”

“Thank you, sir,” he said with the half-smile.  “I still would advise caution, however. It is bound to be a difficult task getting into and, more importantly, out of the building.”

“Oh, pish-posh. You said it yourself, I’ll creep through the back door.”

“The back door is bound to be locked, sir. You will have to break a window.”

My enthusiasm, which had been near the boiling point, cooled by several degrees. Crashing through a window makes for an exciting read of course, but part of the appeal is that the excitement remains fictional and thus unlikely to leave the reader with flesh wounds.  “Well, I don’t see that. He’d hear the crash, for one. And I’d cut myself to ribbons.”

The sheep-like cough presented itself again. “I have heard, sir, that professional burglars employ treacle and brown packing paper to avoid both those dilemmas.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, sir.  They spread the treacle over the paper before sticking it to the glass, then apply a sharp blow.  The sound is muffled and the broken glass affixes to the paper, which is then easily disposed of.”

I ran this through my mind a few times with growing enthusiasm.  Before I might have dropped a bit or two on this scheme to show, but now I was prepared to bet a tenner or even a twenty on it to win.  “Greaves, this is good stuff.”

“Thank you, sir.  I will have a maid bring up some treacle and paper, if that is amenable to you, and make arrangements with the porter.”

“Perfectly amenable,” I said as Greaves offered the finishing touch, my top hat.  I don’t know what it is about formal dress, but a suit and a topper always leave me feeling braced and ready to take on the world.  Or readier, at least.

Nevertheless, as I trotted into the sitting room, an unpleasant jolt rocked the Rooster frame. The saddlebags I’d dumped on the sofa had fallen open and that blasted box of chocolates had sort of edged out of them.

I levitated the confections up to the table, gazing with sudden moodiness at the pink and white box, which featured several dents from being slammed on the counter by an impassioned waitress. My concern for Plinker’s courtship, which I had successfully submerged for an hour or two, resurfaced.  The Bard must’ve known what she was talking about when she said these little affairs of the heart were determined never to run smooth.

Still, I had some hope that Bon Bon would see the light after Plinker explained the posish., and maybe even offer Birdsong swooning words of gratitude once she understood that the Rooster-Heartsong engagement was nothing more than a farce.  

That was the gist of the pep talk I gave myself, anyway. Yet as I looked down at the box of chocolate-covered cherries, I had grave doubts.

“—, sir?” Greaves said, finishing up some remark unheard by the distracted Rooster ear.  The last word was not much help in deciphering what the preceding sentence might have been.  A very proper post-script, of course.  Very much in the feudal spirit.  But not a bally lot to go on when one is trying to break back into the conversation.

“What was that, Greaves?”

“I said I will be going down to help with the preparations now, sir, with your approval.”

“Oh . . . Yes, do so.  I shall see you there, I expect, gliding past with a tureen of soup or some such.”

“Yes, sir.”   He lingered on a bit.  “You seem a bit distracted, sir.”

“Just thinking of this and that,” I said.  I hadn’t told him about Plinker’s romance (possibly) going bust, as I felt strongly that I never wanted to relive or disclose the disastrous scene outside the sweet shop as long as I lived. “Oh, and Greaves.”

“Sir?”

“These sweets.”  I tapped the box.

“Yes, sir?”

“Don’t eat any, will you?”

He straightened and his brows lowered just a fraction.  ”No, sir,” he said, and it had a bit of a rebuke about it.

Belatedly I realized I had inferred that he was the type of servant who helped himself to the master’s food and drink when no one was looking, possibly leaning back in an armchair with his hooves propped on a footstool while he did so.  There was umbrage in the room, and he was taking it.

“Of course I know you wouldn’t,” I added hastily.  “You’re not the type of valet who goes around sticking his nose into everything.”

“No, sir.”

“Or pinching socks.”

“No, sir.”

“I just wanted to emphasize the point—in case, for example, the door jammed and you were trapped here for days on end with no other means of sustenance—because I am not at all sure these chocolates are fit for equine consumption.”

“Sir?” Now one of his eyebrows lifted ever so slightly in puzzlement.

“You never know when a batch of bad chocolate will accidentally fall in the pot.”  Bon Bon’s narrowed eyes once again rose in my memory.  “Or arsenic, for that matter.”

I was expecting another “sir?” or maybe even a “what, sir?”, but he said nothing.  He just raised the other eyebrow, looked at the chocolates, then at me.  I could see him readying another question for launch and had a feeling it would be far too insightful, like “I say, sir, you didn’t happen to stroll by the sweet shop and chat with Miss Bon Bon, did you?” or something along those lines.

So I quickly headed him off. “Well, you get going, Greaves.  And stay vigilant, remember.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”  And with a last glance at the chocolate box, he shimmered out the door.

Not long after, I made my own way downstairs, joining a throng of elegant ponies queuing up to the entrance of the Great Hall, waiting to be announced by a butler (or perhaps a steward—Greaves would know) with astonishing lung capacity.  I don’t say that the heavens trembled and the ground shook when he gave voice, but it must’ve been a close thing.  His entire purpose, it seemed, was to blast out the name of each pony who entered the hall, for the benefit of the many-headed already gathered.

“LADY FLORA CRAYFISH!” he would bellow, or “PRINCE STAR GLEAMER!”, and the pony in question would step through the archway with the slightly dazed look of one who has been half-deafened.

As the line crawled closer, I was surprised to see Pinstripe Tock, the Royal Organizator, positioned beside the butler (or steward), wielding a checklist and a pen.  Why this came as a shock to me I’m not sure; I should’ve guessed that ticking items off a list would be his idea of a delightful evening.  Probably he would gush about it in his diary when he got home.

The butler was doing an admirable job of ignoring Tock’s presence, despite the fact that he couldn’t have been thrilled about having a blighter with a clipboard hovering by his shoulder all night.  He—the butler, that is—didn’t give the blink of an eye as the grey earth pony interrogated each noblepony in turn, demanding name and rank before fussing through his papers to cross them off.  The nobles themselves were less indifferent; so many indignant snorts filled the air that you would’ve thought a particularly asthmatic pony was snoring. If this bothered Tock at all, he was doing a dashed good job of hiding it.

“Name?” Tock said, not bothering to look up, as I drew level with him.

“Birdsong W. Rooster,” said I, watching the pony preceding me—who was burdened with the unlikely name of Lady Butter Tiara—prancing into the Great Hall.  

“Rooster!” Tock looked up sharply, fixing me with a gaze so steely and suspicious that for a few unpleasant seconds I wondered if he’d somehow cottoned onto the whole Border Blanket scheme—although the severity of his expression suggested he thought I was planning some greater crime, like walling up a body in the wine cellar.

But no—I suddenly recollected that the Efficient Tock’s kick against me was the belief that I had been plastering posters all over the castle.  Maybe under normal circumstances this unfounded assumption would have made me indignant, but circs. were so far from n. that I simply felt a surge of relief.

“That’s right.  Birdsong Rooster or, if you prefer it, Rooster, Birdsong.”  My confidence was restored to such an extent that I proceeded to shoot my cuffs in a debonair manner, one after the other.  “So sound the bugle for my charge, what what?”

Tock’s eye bulged behind his horn-rimmed spectacles, but he mastered himself, glared down at his clipboard, and—having apparently located my name—muttered something at the butler.  

A moment later that worthy (meaning the butler, of course, not that perisher Pinstripe) was letting loose a bellow. “MISTER BIRDSONG ROOSTER!”

Squaring my shoulders, I trotted into the room.  Not for nothing was it named the Great Hall;  you could have lost several herds of elephants in it, assuming you had such at your disposal.   Enormously long tables had been lined up in a sort of rectangle with one side missing, with two thrones (current status: unoccupied) dominating the scene.

Over half the company had already seated themselves on the plush red cushions provided, and it seemed like every single one of them was busy either eyeing me with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity or putting their heads together to whisper as I passed by.  But they transferred their attention to newer arrivals as the butler continued baying, thus allowing me to take up the search for my place-card in relative peace.  

I must have trekked along several hundred miles of table before spotting my seat; it was at one of the corners, just where two tables met in a right angle, and offered a fairly good view in both directions—the directions in question being “straight ahead” or “to the right”—despite the place setting being nearly overrun by a massive floral arrangement.  

Sitting down, I nodded politely to my neighbors, although the ones across the table from me were barely visible behind the tangle of greenery, giving the impression that they were lost in the jungle.  Occasionally, during the meal, I stretched my neck to its limits to peer over the flora or ducked down to squint through a gap in the vegetation to ask them if the weather wasn’t the nicest it’d been all summer or remark on the decor, but on the whole an extended conversation would only have been possible if I’d thought to bring a machete.

The guest on my left-ish, kitty-corner to me, was a young colt of indeterminate age with a blank flank and a determinedly grubby face (his father continually attacked it with his napkin throughout the night, to no avail) and a rather mutinous air about him.  No doubt the youngster had other plans for the night which had been rudely spoiled by this formal event.  While I could sympathize, I felt it was not strictly necessary for him to vent his spleen by aiming an unblinking glare at the pony to his right—this would be me—for the entire meal.  

Primarily, then, I was left with the pony on my right as a dinner companion.  I was not too awfully shocked to find it was Princette Snow Shimmer.  I had resigned myself to the fact that the Shimmer motif would haunt my stay in the capitol city.

“What-ho, Princette Shimmer,” I greeted her accordingly.

She lofted an eyebrow.  “Mr. Rooster, I must confess I’m startled to see you here.  However did you get in?”

“Oh, I have my methods,” I said airly.  “Isn’t your brother coming?”

“Of course.  He’s seated down there.”

I squinted down the table, spotting what might have been a yellow unicorn in the distance, near what artists refer to as “the vanishing point.”  “Rather far from the action, what?”

“Well, my dear brother is merely a duke  But he has a better seat than the lords and ladies, at least.”  She unfolded her napkin, wearing what one might uncharitably call a smug expression.  “He will certainly be furious to find that you were nearer to the, er, ‘action’ than he.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t think so.  He’s the one who told me about this shindig, after all.”  I pushed away a couple of fern fronds that were encroaching on my plate.

“Only because he thought you would be denied entry, I’m sure."

“Hmm.”  I looked to my left, was met with the unyielding stare of that sullen foal again, and opted to gaze right again, this time looking beyond the Princette.  Halfway down the table were two thrones, one done up in red and gold and one in silver and blue.  The gold one was certainly meant for Great-Aunt Celly, but I couldn’t think who would occupy the other.

“I know the Princess is going to settle on that red and yellow affair, but who do the blue and silver racing stripes belong to?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That silver throne, who’s it meant for?”

“Oh. I see what you mean.”  The Princette’s gaze fell on her silverware as she straightened it slightly.  Her reply was not the most helpful, but fortunately I dredged up a bit of trivia from the depths of my memory.

“Oh, I’ve got it!  It must belong to the Princess’ sister. What’s her name, now . . . Lunar?  No, Luna. Princess Luna, that’s the ticket.”

“Mmm.”

“The long-lost princess of the stars or moon or something, if I recall the headlines correctly.  Funny to think of that running in the family—control of celestial bodies, I mean.”

“Ah.”  The Princette levitated her glass and gazed into it—a rather pointless endeavor since it was empty.

“Must be rather rummy for the Princess—Princess Celestia—having a long-lost relation turn up after a thousand years,” I continued, valiantly trying to sustain a dialogue that was rapidly turning into a soliloquy.

But just then a desiccated old mare with a face like a prune passed by (Princette Royal Ribbon, if the butler was to be believed) and Snow Shimmer fairly leapt to her hooves to greet her, so I gave up on conversation and eyeballed the thrones again. The silver one was nearest me, which led me to hope that I’d get a good look at Luna when she arrived.  

Where exactly the Night Princess had come from was a matter of some confusion; the official statement from Canterlot had simply announced that Princess Luna had returned after a long sojourn, but of course that hadn’t stopped rampant speculation in the tabloids.  About the only thing all the papers agreed on was that she was an alicorn—a winged unicorn, you know—like the Princess.  

As for her millennium of absence, there were various theories floating about.  One pony would tell you that she’d been locked in a tower by a fifty-foot high, equine-eating monster for all that time, another would swear up and down that she’d been wandering the world with amnesia, and one particularly sordid rag, Society Spice, had the gall to print that she’d steered clear of ponykind for all those years because of some squabble with her regal sister.

Complete rot, of course, but what can one expect from the Spice?  When I tell you that this paper couldn’t even get Princess Luna’s colour right—describing her as “pure black” while every other paper agreed she was deep blue—I think you will begin to see what kind of publication it was.

After Snow Shimmer reseated herself, I tried to get her opinion of Luna’s extended vacation, but she was busying herself with some prince on her right.  It was beginning to look as though my choice of conversational partners was limited to a glowering foal or a vase of flowers . . . but then a thought hit me so solidly between the eyes that I took the liberty of nudging Snow Shimmer’s foreleg with my hoof.  She turned towards me, eyes narrowing, but I didn’t give her a chance to speak.

“I say, Princette . . . where are the knights seated, do you know?”  I waited anxiously for her reply, for it had suddenly occurred to me that I was amidst a crowd of nobles—and that both Plinker’s parents were on the bottom echelon of the Council of Peers.

The lavender princette relaxed.  “Oh, the knights.” She smiled tolerantly. “They won’t be in attendance.  They would only feel out of place in the presence of the Royal Princess.  And there are far too many of them anyway.”

“Oh, I see!”  This seemed to me to be net gain, as it would’ve been a bit futile trying to pass myself off as a prince to the Heartsong clan when the butler had screamed out to the world that I was a mere “mister.”  Some of the tension sagged out of my shoulders.

The princette interpreted said sagging of shoulders as a gesture of defeat, however.  “No, if you’re depending on the knights then your chances are slim.  Still, there is always a chance you can attract a lord or lady as an ally, or even, possibly, a duchess.”

“Oh quite,” I said vaguely.  I was trying to think of a tactful way to ask what on earth she was talking about when the butler’s latest bellow echoed through the room:

“PRINCE AUGUST BLUEBLOOD!”

Now, the assembled nobles had whispered about each new arrival in turn before returning to their idle chatter. But those mild shows of interest were nothing compared to the reaction elicited by my cousin.  The table positively erupted with gasps and several ponies stood up and turned around to get a better look.  I was on the wrong side of the table for seat-turning so I stretched my neck instead, trying to overcome the hedge of flowers.  Meanwhile the whispered remarks of the many-headed were increasing in volume and frequency.

“—never dreamed he’d show up!”

“—the Princess invited him—?“

“—looking shockingly scruffy, if you ask me.”

This last was unfortunately true; although Cousin August had made a brave attempt to clean himself up since I had last seen him, he was miles from looking at his best.  His dinner jacket hung too loosely (rather like the skin of those wrinkled Imperial dogs), he had added a few more shadows to the set beneath his eyes, and his hair fell limply, like the ‘before’ photo in a shampoo advert.  He was clearly attempting to maintain his usual strut, but there was a slinking quality beneath his strides.

The murmurs died away into utter silence as he approached the table, which wouldn’t have been quite so unpleasant if half the attendees hadn’t continued watching him out of the corners of their eyes, as though he was a lapdog of uncertain temperament waddling about at a dinner party.

How he spotted me I’m not sure, given that we were on opposite sides of the table with the aforementioned topiary between us, but I knew he'd seen me by the way his bloodshot eyes bugged out. He took several rapid steps in my direction before coming to a standstill, staring at me like I was some particularly macabre creature from his darkest nightmares.  

Hardly logical, since he was the one practically swimming in his suit while I was nicely kitted out, if I say so myself.  But there it was, Cousin August stood there boggling, silently mouthing what appeared to be swear words.

Despite his uncouth behavior, I started to offer a pleasant “what-ho!”, but he cut me off with a snort and pranced away, nose so high in the air that it was practically vertical.   Somehow he still managed to find his place card, more or less opposite the silver and blue throne and a bit off-center from Great-Aunt Celly’s seat.

“Interesting,” muttered Snow Shimmer.

“What is?” I asked, but just then the lad on my left started banging his dessert fork on his plate, which rather distracted me.

By the time his father convinced him to stop (through a combination of dire threats and desperate entreaties), the party had attained that slightly restless “well, where’s the soup?” stage that is common to all social gatherings. (At the Drones Club ponies often express their restlessness by throwing dinner rolls, but the gentry were less energetic, and confined themselves to twitching a little.) The seats had filled up and ponies were beginning to tire of their conversational partners, glancing around in the futile hope of finding somepony new to chatter with.

Four unicorn guards broke the ennui by marching in, flourishing long trumpets with pendants dripping off them, and blasting a little ditty.  Whether one of them was Seeker, I couldn’t tell, but thanks to their armour they shared his colour scheme.

The butler chappie by the door took their arrival as the cue to call out, “EVERYPONY, BE UPSTANDING FOR . . .”

The guards interrupted with another series of notes, which didn’t seem to disturb the butler in the least.  He gathered another lungful of air into his bellows and truly outdid himself.

“HER ROYAL HIGHNESS, PRINCESS CELESTIA OF EQUESTRIA!”

Everypony immediately shoved to their hooves (except the young lad beside me, who had to be physically pulled upright by his father) and pointed their noses towards the floor as the Princess paced in.  

I suppose you’ve seen Princess Celestia on the coins of the realm, but she’s a far more striking sight in person.  There’s certainly no mistaking her. It’s not just that she has both a wing and horns—or rather, other way ‘round—or that she’s easily twice as tall as any other pony.  She wears a crown, of course, but that's not it either—more to do with her eyes and her smile, I think.  Just looking at her makes you feel happy and safe, like the sun has just come out from behind a cloud.  (I don’t usually go in for soppiness like that, but it’s the honest truth.)  She smiled kindly at the gathered company, looking as hearty and hale as ever, to my relief.

“My little ponies,” she said, walking to her throne and tilting her head gracefully in acknowledgement.  Everypony took this as the signal to straighten up, but no one sat.  One doesn’t sit at a grand state dinner when the monarch is standing, don’t you know!   But Princess Celestia wasn’t making any move to set flank to floor, so everypony gamely kept to their hooves.

Before this little tableau could become awkward, the butler let out another bellow:  “AND PRESENTING HER MAJESTY’S HONOURED GUEST . . .”

Ponies began blinking at one another and I remember thinking that this was an odd way to introduce your sister.

“ . . . AND ELEMENT OF HARMONY . . .”

More shiftings, stretching of necks, and widening eyes from the crowd.

“MISS RARITY THE UNICORN!”

Next chapter:  Maybe not the worst night ever, but certainly down there on the list!

Wow, that will teach me to make rash statements like “expect the next chapter soon”!  Sorry for the wait, ladies and gentlecolts.  I did have the chapter almost entirely finished, but then decided to rewrite it for various reasons, then rewrote the rewrite.  Anyway, here it is at last!

On a random note, here’s the Rooster coat of arms. It was an illustration for one of the bits of the second rewrite that ultimately got cut out. The Latin inscription is “We herald the sun.”  (Thanks to kaerfel on the MLP Arena for the translation!)

Update 4/21/12 - Today the show revealed a third alicorn, Princess Cadence!  How am I going to address this revelation, you may wonder.  I will tell you:  by knocking those wings right off her, demoting her to a unicorn, and making her a regular princette.   Great finale, but there was no real reason for her to be an alicorn.

Chapter 8: In the Soup, Split Pea or Otherwise

Chapter 8: In the Soup, Split Pea or Otherwise

I recall a poem I learned in secondary school that went:

Something something something
Something something something
“The curse has come upon me,” cried
The Lady of Something.

Replacing “Lady of Something” with “Prince Blueblood” may give you some notion of the expression on my cousin’s face at this point.  He looked like a pony who not only has had the curse come upon him, but has received the curse via the post and has signed for it and paid cash-on-delivery before realizing what’s in the box.  No sooner was Rarity’s name echoing off the walls than August’s pupils shrunk to pinpoints and his body tensed as though an electrical current was taking a shortcut through it.  With a slight shudder, I turned from this unpleasant spectacle to take a gander at the Princess’ guest.

Up to this moment, I’d had a vague idea that Miss Rarity would have slightly mussed hair, a smattering of freckles across the nose, and generally resemble the sort of pony who appears in dimestore novels with titles like Only a Factory Filly, giving brave speeches after her love interest discovers she’s of humble birth.  You know the sort of thing—“I may be only a worker in the Detrot Carriage Factory,” Bitsy Daisy said, raising her head high and looking at Lord Thoroughbred-Mannering with her green eyes flashing, “but I’m proud to have supported my dear old father on my wages ever since he lost both left legs!”

In reality, however, this filly was less along the lines of a Humble Heroine than a Fashionplate.  “Elegant” would be the primary adjective to describe her, a pony who was, no question about it, rather a looker . . . a white unicorn with deep purple curls framing her map. And really, this made more sense than the version I’d expected; Lord Thoroughbred-Mannering might ultimately declare that “Be her origin ne'er so humble, any good mare is the equal of the finest lady in the land!”, but Cousin August was unlikely to share his sentiments.  I could well imagine the royal fit he’d thrown when he learned he’d been hobnobbing with a tradespony all night.

Rather silly of him, because—tradespony or no—she fit right in with this crowd, from horn to heels.  I don’t know how she was outfitted at the Gala, but at this royal shindig she was engulfed in a gold dress with blue flowers twiddled about it and wore a necklace weighed down with blue gems.

I speculated that this last might be the Element of Harmony which, according to the Londun Times, had been awarded to her by Princess Celestia herself after the dreadful business of last year’s Summer Sun Celebration. But possibly it was mere jewelry after all; to be honest, I was a bit fogged about all this E. of H. business.  According to the papers, the Elements were flashy medals of honour iced liberally with gemstones, but I had a vague memory of coming across a reference to them in my formative years, when I won the school prize for Mythological Knowledge.  Whatever the case, there were definitely six Elements of Harmony that matched up with six mares who had—somehow or another—helped Great-Aunt Celly when the sun fizzled out on the morn of the summer solstice. . . though nopony, when giving their post-mortem of that event, agreed just how the fillies did it or even what the problem was to begin with.   Most agreed they had fought something, but that “something” was reported as everything from a giant space turtle to Nightmare Moon to Father Solstice.  As you may have noticed, some ponies are given to rather silly speculations.

This Rarity didn’t look like she was built to wrestle space turtles, dragons, or even alligators—she was rather on the dainty side—but of course you never know, especially with unicorns.  I recall accidentally treading on a small filly’s book as a lad (but really, was it my fault that she had carpeted the library with her reading materials?) and, although she was a wee little thing, she was not so wee that she was unable to magically bring about four shelves of books down on my head in a fit of wrath.  It was entirely possible that Miss Rarity had equal magical prowess.

Despite the fact that she was one of those who tread more and more slowly the closer they get to their destination, the unicorn in question eventually reached the table.  Taking her place by the Princess’ right side, she offered a deep bow.  “Your Royal Highness!”

“Rarity, it is such an honour to have you here,” Princess Celestia said with a smile, nodding down at her.  She sat down at last and everyone else sank off their hooves.

“Oh no, Princess, the honour is all mine, believe me,” Rarity said earnestly, bowing a second time for good measure before taking her seat.  “I cannot begin to express how grateful I am to be invited to this lovely dinner in CanterlaaaAAAAhhht!”

She had spotted Cousin August—evident not only from the sudden distortion in her speech, but also by the way her smile froze on her face, as though it had been evicted but forgotten to vacate the premises, and had just returned home to find all the furniture repossessed.  August, for his part, continued staring across the table in a frozen sort of way, looking more than ever like a pony living out his worst nightmares.

“I don’t believe you’ve met Princette Royal Ribbon, have you?” Princess Celestia said, interrupting their little contest for Best Horrified Stare of the Year.  “Royal Ribbon, may I present Rarity the Unicorn.”

“Charmed, my dear.”

“And this is Prince Star Gleamer . . . Prince Crystal Crown . . . Princette Precious Gem . . .”

“Hello . . . so pleased to meet you . . . how do you do?” Rarity recovered enough to murmur politely as the Princess presented each noble in turn.  

After exhausting the ponies within close range on her side of the table (which did not include me, unfortunately—she would’ve needed a megaphone), Great-Aunt Celly began drawing Rarity’s attention to the ponies on the opposite side.  As this assembly line of introductions drew closer and closer to August’s seat, his eyes darted right and left and I half expected to see him dive under the table.  But after doling out the name of elderly prince on his right, Great-Aunt Celly’s eyes glided right past Cousin August and fixed on the pony to his left.

“And this is Princette Royal Purple,” she continued without missing a beat, nodding regally towards an earth pony wearing a wig that must have been causing her considerable neck strain.

“So very nice to make your acquaintance, Princette.” Rarity held her head high as she followed Princess Celestia’s example, focusing on the purple mare rather than the adjacent, cowering unicorn colt.

I turned towards the salad in front of me, which a servant had slid into place sometime during this little melodrama, feeling not a little relieved.  Aunts may glower and sneer at nephews as a matter of course, but great-aunts can be relied upon to show a more gentle and generous nature, even to a blister of a great-nephew like August.   With any luck, the princely Blueblood’s reputation would be patched up before the evening wore to a close.  In this optimistic frame of mind I worked my way through both the soup and salad courses.  

But as the meal progressed, I began to have misgivings.  Every time I cast a glance down the table, I was greeted with the sight of my cousin hunching over his plate like a vulture with a bad back or, no better, staring sightless into the middle distance.  His entire bearing was that of a condemned prisoner who has ordered a last meal and found the waiter has got it wrong. Frankly, he was beginning to annoy me.  How did he expect anypony to form a good opinion of him if he did nothing but mope?  If the local aristocracy had had to put up with a month of this, no wonder they were pipped at August.  “Weep, and you weep alone” and all that.

Of course it’s unpleasant to find that you’re breaking bread at the same table as a filly you’ve had a spat with. I understood that.  Believe me, I understood . . . I once strongly advised Lala Blossom to bet every spare cent on Speedwell, a pony who subsequently came in seventh in a six pony race.  “Awkward” does not begin to cover my run-ins with Lala immediately after that unfortunate event. “Horrifying” would be more the thing.  What her reaction would have been if I’d also seen fit to shove her into an eight-layer apple cake . . . Well, it doesn’t bear thinking about.

But August Blueblood, in my opinion, was getting off easy; this Rarity, far from seeking vengeance by tossing a cup of salt in his soup or dropping bugs in his mane like some fillies would have, was no longer paying him any attention whatsoever.  Indeed, she was engrossed in an animated discussion about flight-friendly dresses with a couple pegasi and, judging from her excited tone of voice, had forgotten that a Prince Blueblood ever existed.

Furthermore, Great-Aunt Celly continued to let her eye glide past my cousin without pause, as though he was in a perpetual blind spot, and this must have had the desired effect on the rest of the company, for not a single aristocrat was booing, hissing, or hurtling food at August.  They, too, simply chattered amongst themselves without sparing a glance for him . . . and when you consider their chilly reaction to his entrance and the abundance of bread rolls and other potential missiles readily available, that was surely the best one could hope for.  If these circumstances didn’t call for August Blueblood to raise his eyes heavenward and give thanks, then what did?

But no, the gloomy cove just sat there dissecting his cannelloni and pushing its contents around his plate with a fork.  Having determined that the pasta’s entrails foretold prophecies of doom and destruction, he opted to return to his other exciting activity, staring across the table with glazed, empty eyes.

I started to give a snort at his antics, but as I followed his gaze it turned into a small whinny of surprise.  “I say!”  

Of course, I didn’t get a response from anypony, except the sullen child glared a bit harder.  Princette Snow Shimmer was heavily invested in a conversation with the prince to her starboard and the hedge of exotic flowers still separated me from all else.  So I was left to ponder the latest mystery on my own—to wit, the fact that although the blue and silver throne stood across the table from my cousin in all its splendor, Princess Luna was nowhere to be seen.

The Rarity-Blueblood situation had taken up so much of my attention that only now did it strike me that Princess Celestia’s sister had never made her grand entrance.  Aside from personal disappointment on not being able to take a gander at her, her absence seemed dashed odd.  Granted, she might be attending some duties as Princess of the Night (or was it “of the Stars”?), but surely that wouldn’t take all evening?  I mean, Great-Aunt Celly was the one wheeling the sun about, but that didn’t take up her entire day.

I pondered this for a while, but by the time the last course rolled around it was obvious that speculation on Princess Luna’s whereabouts would have to wait; my cousin’s crisis needed my full attention.  His demeanor showed no signs of improvement; he fidgeted and winced all through Great-Aunt Celly’s closing remarks (thanking the gathered assembly in general and dropping a few compliments on Miss Rarity in particular). As the Princess rose to her hooves, I was laying good odds on August making a dash for his private quarters, but no . . . When the nobleponies followed the Princess into the Grand Ballroom, August was swept along with them.  

To my surprise, the ballroom had undergone some significant changes since I’d last seen it.  The huge marble columns which had once been set along the perimeter were gone, although the broken-off bases of a few of them remained.  In addition, the gleaming alicorn statue at the far end of the room must have suffered some misadventure, as its wings, head, and tail were fixed on its body at strangely crooked angles.  Later inspection would reveal that these appendages had broken off and been welded back on.

Oddly, a buffet was set up near the statue.  I didn’t see much sense in this, after a seven course meal, but there it was all the same—a long table replete with petit fours, truffles, miniature apple tarts, and so on.   A few nobles trotted over to sample the fare, but most drifted towards the lounging cushions set up near the windows, stepped out into the garden, or wandered around the marble dance floor, chattering like flocks of sparrows.  I looked around hopefully for my great-aunt, but to my disappointment the gentry had crowded around her three deep, a mob mostly composed of the more elderly examples of the noblesse, whom the Princess was introducing to Rarity, and vice versa.

With less enthusiasm I glanced about for August. I spotted him sneaking off behind a curtain with several bottles of dessert wine and decided was all for the best—it would be easier to work on his behalf if he weren’t present anyway. The time had come to spread lavish compliments about my cousin, no matter how fundamentally inaccurate.  To this end, I wedged myself into a batch of young ponies clustered around a pink unicorn of advanced years, who was all but dripping with jewels.

“So wonderful to see you again, Princette.”

“Can I refresh your drink, Princette?”

“Did you hear about Lord Bitterbrush’s run in with those tourists, Princette?  Quite an amusing little story.”

I gathered the elderly mare was a princette.

The rest of the congregation was still a mystery, however, as the old unicorn didn’t bother to respond to most of these remarks and inquiries, merely running her gaze around her little court in a self-satisfied way.  As for the other nobles, they paid me no mind and took hardly any more notice of one another, except when tossing a quick but heated look at an apparent blood enemy.  Clearly it was going to be hard to break the ice with this crowd, and the grande dame looked far too aunt-like for my comfort.  I was about to effect a quiet retreat when I heard a voice behind me yelp a familiar cry of “You!”

I turned ‘round and, sure enough, there was Duke Sun Shimmer, straight-out boggling at me.

“What-ho, Duke Shimmer,” I said civilly.

“H-how did you get in?” the Duke sputtered. His sister, trotting up behind him, gave me an “I told you so” sort of look.

“Oh, I have my methods,” I said in my most mysterious voice, adding an enigmatic smile to boot.  In theory this should have left him speechless and impressed, but perhaps he hadn’t read the same books as I had.  

“But how? HOW?” he persisted.  “I looked in Snow Shimmer’s stupid book—”

“Without my permission,” she contributed sniffily.

“—and she was absolutely right, you’re just—”

“Of course I was right, dear brother, and if you listened to me more often—”

“Shut up, I’m trying to—”

“You shut up.”

“What is all this?” a sharp voice interjected from behind me.   The Shimmer siblings’ row ground to a halt as they stared past me like ponies blinded by an inconvenient bolt of lightning on the way to Dam-ascus.  A glance to the aft revealed that the elderly pink pony had entered the scene from upstage and was fixing all three of us with a stare.  Her entourage accordingly gathered ‘round to better view the show, and some minor pushing and shoving ensued as each pony fought for a house seat.

Snow Shimmer recovered first, aiming a low bow at the unicorn mare.  “Good evening, Princette Cloud Dreamer.”

The mare eyed her and her brother.  “Princette Ice Shimmer and Lord Sun Shimmer, correct?” demanded Cloud Dreamer (a name far too drifty and soft for this wizened old pony, I assure you).

After a moment of tortured silence the yellow colt muttered something about being a duke and Snow Shimmer just nodded feebly.

“And then there’s you.” Cloud Dreamer turned her attention to me, causing me to back up several paces. “I haven’t seen you before. Are you a lord?”

“Well, no, I’m—”

“A duke?”

“No, actually—”

“Well, you’re not a prince,” she said with finality, giving me a suspicious look.  

The crowd murmured nothings, not the sweet variety but the more gossipy kind, while Princette Cloud Dreamer scoured me with her eyeballs again.  I took off my hat and bowed, partly because I’d remembered my manners, but mostly so I could avoid her gaze.  “Ah . . . yes.  I’m  . . . quite pleased to meet you, Princette.  The name’s Birdso—”

“Ah, I have it. You must be related to Fancy Pants,” she said, trampling over my intro and raising a buzz amongst her little swarm of admirers.

“Fancy Pants?” I had vaguely heard of this pony—he was a diplomat or a minister or something.  “Ah ha ha, no, I’m not—”

“Mirror Mirror.” Princette Cloud Dreamer beckoned to an equally wrinkled mare walking by, followed by a miniature crowd of her own.  “Look at this pony.”

“What about that pony?  Don’t think I’ve forgotten how you stole my lozenges, Cloud!”

“Never mind about your lozenges. What do you notice about him?”

“He’s a unicorn,” said Mirror Mirror, who happened to be an earth pony.

“He’s not a unicorn.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Yes, but that’s not the point.  He’s Fancy Pants’ son.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Cloud.  Fancy is too young and this colt is too old.  But he does have the same colours. Maybe he’s a nephew.”

“Ridiculous. If he’s too old to be a son, he’s too old to be a nephew.”  

“Then he’s a cousin.”

“Ah, a cousin. How right you are, Mirror, how right you are. That’s just what he is.”  And they both looked at me, Cloud Dreamer going so far as to focus her stare through a jeweled lorgnette.

My jaw had been working soundlessly through all this, as they assigned me familial ties to a pony I’d barely heard of and had certainly never met.  Internally, it was a race between indignation and bewilderment, with bewilderment ahead by several lengths and rocketing towards the finish line.  So I think my next remark would have been a confused “What?” or possibly even “What? What? What?” rather than a more abrasive “Hoy!”

A moot point, as it turned out, because Sun Shimmer found his voice first.  “What a load of tripe!” He didn’t speak that loudly, really; it was a remark meant only for his sister, I think.  It was merely unfortunate that his comment coincided with a lull in the ambient noise, and that the acoustics in the ballroom were so good.

A collective gasp ran through the gathered ponies, and Cloud Dreamer and Mirror Mirror swiveled in tandem, aiming stares at the Duke that threatened to melt him into his base components on the spot.  While he didn’t actually turn into a molten puddle, he did immediately begin to quail.

“Uh, that is . . . Obviously a very g-good theory, princettes, but he’s not . . .”   The minor aristocracy, too shocked by this blatant contradiction even to whisper about it, goggled at him, while Snow Shimmer subtly edged away and tried to look unrelated.  The mares kept up their twin glares, apparently trying to melt a hole through Sun Shimmer’s face.  

“No, look, it’s true!” the Duke said in increasingly frantic tones, stabbing a hoof in my direction. “He’s not Fancy Pants’ son or whatever, he’s not a lord, he’s not even a knight!  He’s just, he’s just—”

“That is quite enough, young colt—”

“What a disgraceful display—”

“HE’S BLUEBLOOD’S COUSIN!!”

Mirror Mirror inhaled sharply through her nose, Cloud Dreamer dropped her jeweled lorgnette, and the crowd did what it did best, namely gave another collective gasp.  Everypony was staring at me in utter horror.

Everypony, that is, except Sun Shimmer.  His face was that of a pony who has just fallen off a fifty foot cliff, only to find a municipal dump specifically for mattresses, balloons, and feather pillows operating at the bottom of it.  “That’s right!  Blueblood’s cousin!  Didn’t tell you that, did he?  No, he came crawling up to you under false pretenses—”

“Hoy!”

“—pretending to be related to Fancy Pants, pretending to be on the Council—”

“Look here!”

“—when all this time he’s nothing more than a lowly, treacherous worm, like his cousin—”

“Oh, COME now!”

“Do you deny it?” Sun Shimmer pointed his hoof so dramatically I had to leap backwards to avoid being smacked in the nose.  “Do you DENY that you’re Prince Blueblood’s blood relation?”

“Well . . . well no!  But really, I wasn’t trying to—”

Sun Shimmer tsked as he paced back in forth in front of the crowd, most of which was now visibly leaning away from me.  “A sad day in Canterlot, a sad day when an upstart of a unicorn tries to hoodwink sweet, elderly ladies!”  (A line that earned another round of mute jawing on my part.) “And to think, nopony would’ve been the wiser if I hadn’t had the foresight to look up this blackguard’s lineage in . . . in . . .”

“Crème de la Crème’s Equestrian Peerage?” Snow Shimmer suggested acidly.

Sun Shimmer returned a venomous look. “Yes. That.”

“But look here, I . . .” To my horror, Princette Cloud Dreamer was levitating her lorgnette off the floor; the last thing I wanted was to be confronted with that again. “I am his cousin, certainly—” Another collective gasp. “—but he’s really not such a bad pony, you know!”  The fourth collective gasp since I’d run into this lot, and one pony in the back fainted.

As I desperately tried to remember some of August’s good points—all I could think of was the time he’d put slugs in my bed as a kid—Cloud Dreamer did indeed pin me with a glare through her jeweled glasses.

“Well.” The unicorn princette gave me the kind of a look that a mosquito might receive just before the life is slapped out of it.  “I think we’ve had enough of this company, don’t you, Mirror?”

“Definitely,” Mirror Mirror sniffed.

“Come along, Sun Shimmer, my dear. I’m sure Prince Star Gleamer will be interested to meet you.  He’s over by the windows . . .”

“No, he’s not, he’s in the garden.  And don’t think I’ve forgotten how you stole my lozenges, Cloud!”

And with that the princettes swept away, with an elated Sun Shimmer by their side and the whole procession trailing after them (even the pony who’d fainted, who underwent an abrupt recovery), leaving nopony behind except myself and Snow Shimmer.

I turned to her, gibbering gently, hoping for some show of sympathy.  Instead I got a look coated with hoarfrost.  “You started too big, you fool,” she said, “and now see what you’ve done.”  And having uttered these comforting words, she huffed and exited, stage left.

I retreated to the buffet table, feeling that I was not only out of my depth, but out of my depth in a boat that was rapidly taking on water.  At this point August’s strategy of waiting out the remainder of the evening in some secluded spot, accompanied by copious amounts of alcohol, was beginning to look like a good one.  But no, I reminded myself sternly, a Rooster does not run up the white flag so easily. Sighing, I scanned the room wistfully for Great-Aunt Celly.  But she was introducing Rarity to another mess of ponies and I hadn’t a hope of fighting through that crowd.  Reluctantly I returned to the Blueblood Dilemma.

Scathing though Snow Shimmer’s remark had been, she had a point.  What had I been thinking, I asked myself, expecting to impress a couple of elderly mares of aunt-like bearing?  Whether they were actual aunts, I could not say—one doesn’t like to make rash accusations—but they clearly bore enough of a resemblance to the breed to make them a lost cause.  Nor did I kid myself that it would go any better with the elderly stallions on the scene; not a one of them walked by but he didn’t have eagle-eyes, a serious expression, and, in many cases, a monocle.  Monocles, in my opinion, were no better than lorgnettes.  The only reason an old stallion wears a monocle is so he can make others feel like they’re a bacterium caught on a glass slide.

No, my only hope was to blend in with some of the younger ponies and then sort of work the conversation around to August and then hope that his improved reputation would filter up to the higher ranks of the Council of Peers . . . somehow.  Clearly this plan would require a certain amount of ad libbing.  With a sigh, I inhaled a petit four and, spotting a group of likely ponies, leapt into action.

Things kicked off to a good start; this bunch, principally composed of lords and ladies, seemed civil enough. I slipped into their midst and pondered how to guide the conversation around to my cousin’s virtues.  Currently they were giving a full autopsy of the meal they’d just consumed.

“The hors d’oeuvres were perfection, simply perfection.”

“Yes, but the soup was a tad too salty, in my opinion.”

“Nonsense, it had exactly the right amount of salt.  I do feel it was lacking something, though.  Perhaps if it had more carrots . . .”

Not exactly the ideal set up to introduce the subject of August Blueblood.  The only opening line that occurred to me was “Speaking of food, did you see how Prince Blueblood shoved his around his plate for the entire meal?”, which was not really the tone I wanted to set.  

I was wracking my brains for something better when a finely dressed pegasus colt said, “I wonder what the Princess thought of the apple dumplings.  Such . . . unusual fare.”

I brightened, for this was the perfect lead-in.  “I say!  I know just the pony to ask!”

All heads turned.  “Who’s that, . . . ?” The colt trailed off in a meaningful way to hint that I should drop my name and station into the blank space provided.  Which I didn’t.

“I’ll tell you who.  A pony who was sitting within a metre of Princess Celestia.  A pony of high rank—the highest, as he’s reminded me many times—who was right across the table from—Oh, honestly.”

This last remark was in reference to Duke Sun Shimmer, whom I had just spotted sauntering in my direction.  He was no longer in the company of the princettes, but was leading a small herd of the well-dressed, nonetheless.

“Well, well. Good evening all,” he cooed as he strolled up.  “Hello Lord Rosin, Lady Silver Song. Lord Featherfall, you’re looking well. And yooooou, I can’t quite place—oh yes, you must be Prince Blueblood’s cousin.”

You can guess the aftermath, I’m sure.  Gasps, of the collective variety, from all and sundry, including from some of Sun Shimmer’s cohorts whom I recognized as having already heard this info. the first time around.  In fact, the pony who had previously fainted gave an encore performance.  But I was less concerned with these repeat offenders than I was with my new round of acquaintances, who were shrinking away.  Sun Shimmer could not have caused more of a stir if he’d said, “Oh yes, you carry that deadly, highly contagious plague, don’t you?”

I turned quickly to one of the culinary-minded ponies—Featherfall, I think—and entreated him.  “If you’ll just listen to me for five minutes—”  But the flighty thing just shot me a panicked look and took wing, literally.

“Well, I must be moving along.  Have a wonderful night!” said Sun Shimmer, and the gastronomically-inclined ponies who hadn’t already fled for the hills were quickly absorbed into his little herd as he pranced off, leaving me once again alone and stymied.

Stymied, in fact, nicely summed up the rest of the evening.  At first I clung to some shred of hope; I wasn’t about to give up on my strategy just because it didn’t immediately bear fruit.  Unfortunately, Duke Shimmer wasn’t about to give up either, and his strategy continually trumped mine.  Every time I managed to strike up anything close to camaraderie with a cluster of the gentry—at one point several of them went so far as to commit themselves to being pleased to meet me—he would come ankling along with his band of admirers and casually trace my family tree back to the Blueblood branch.  And every blasted time, the ponies I’d been chatting with scattered like chaff in the wind—often attaching themselves to Sun Shimmer’s brigade as he marched off in a self-satisfied way.

After the fourth or fifth repetition of this scene, I dragged myself back to the buffet table to regroup.  I’d been toying with the same petit four for going on ten minutes, wishing August had left some of the wine, when a gentle cough sounded near my ear. I spun around, wondering what new horror the night held, but my panic quickly melted away.  

“Greaves!”

“Good evening, sir.  I’m sorry if I startled you.”

“Not at all, not at all!”  I don’t know when I’ve been happier to see anypony.  “Have a petit four?”

“No thank you, sir.”

“Have an apple tart? Mango gelato?”

“Thank you but no, sir. I had a bite in the Servants’ Hall, just before the feast started.”

“Good fare, I hope?”

“Extremely, sir.”

“Good. Good. Good.” I toyed with a spoonful of gelato before absently dumping it into the punch bowl. “You were there, then?  At the feast, I mean.”

“Oh yes, sir.”

“Really? I didn’t see you.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said, sounding well-pleased.

“Not at all,” I returned cordially.  “Well, I don’t mind telling you that I’m glad you’ve made yourself more visible. Things are getting a bit thick around here.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“Indeed, Greaves.  As thick as . . . as . . . pudding.”

“Pea soup is more typically part of the idiom, I think, sir.”

“Pudding or pea soup, the fact remains we have serious problems, Greaves.  There is a fly in the ointment, a snake in the grass, and a spanner in the works when it comes to the Blueblood situation. You observed the adversity I faced out there on the dance floor?”

“No, sir.”

“Right, well—no?”

“I absented myself after dinner, sir, and only just returned.  I was—”

“Never mind, Greaves. Never mind.  I don’t require an itinerary of your every movement, of course,” I said, a little hurt by this lack of the old feudal spirit. But if he wanted to chat with parlourmaids or something while the young master suffered, well, that was his decision. “You’re here now, at least.  Let me give you the footnotes on this miserable chapter in my life.  You see that unicorn out there, the one with the smug expression and the band of camp followers?”

“The brightly hued one?  Yes, sir.”

“That, Greaves, is none other than Duke Sun Shimmer.”

“Ah yes, the gentlecolt who—”

“Who alerted me to this function to begin with, yes.  I wish he hadn’t,” I said fervently. “And apparently he wishes the same, for he’s been taking the most unholy pleasure in scuttling every move I take on August’s behalf.”

“Possibly he has a grudge against Prince Blueblood, sir?”

I paused, processing this. “Possibly, Greaves, possibly.  If so, he’s not alone.  The situation is dire.  Not only is August’s name mud, but the moment Sun Shimmer lets drop the fact that I’m a cousin to the princely Blueblood, my name, too, becomes mud.  And Duke Shimmer is not reticent with that info., let me tell you!”

“Most disturbing, sir.”

“Most disturbing is right!  You have not known ‘most disturbing’, Greaves, until you’ve seen mares sweeping their skirts away from you like you carry a contagion and stallions leaping away as though you’re a manticore about to go for the throat.  Possibly, given time, I could have exercised enough natural charm to overcome the conditioning that makes them roll their eyes and fall into fits when the word ‘Blueblood’ is heard, but thanks to that blasted Sun Shimmer . . . If I never have the opportunity to speak with that blighter again, Greaves, it will be too soon.”

He coughed.  “Won’t that make things a little difficult, sir?”

“I don’t follow—Oh blast.” I flung my hoof over the bridge of my nose as a figure bedecked in armor began making a beeline towards us. “Don’t look now, but there’s a rozzer headed our way.  What now?”

“Well, sir, I believe that would be—”

“Hello, Mr. Rooster!” the grey and white colt said, giving a cheerful half-rear as he reached the table.

Well, who else.  It was Seeker.

Next chapter:  Does Duke Sun Shimmer, in fact, have poetry in his soul?

Sometimes I walk downstairs for a can of something and can’t remember what I went down there for.  Then I walk back upstairs and remember.  Then I walk back downstairs and forget.  I imagine that is pretty much how Birdy’s mind normally works.

Oh, a note on Fancy Pants . . . I figure his social circle is different from that of the nobleponies.  His friends are high-society, but tend to have jobs (museum curator, auctioneer, etc), unlike most of the nobles. So that's why he's Mister Not-Appearing-At-This-Dinner-Party.

Chapter 9: Rhymes and Other Forms of Torture

Chapter 9: Rhymes and Other Forms of Torture

You may recall my earlier comment about Hindsight, namely that it makes a pony look back on his past decisions with a jaundiced and rueful eye.  That was exactly my reaction upon seeing the guard Seeker pop up out of nowhere.  “Do not invite this lovesick Romantic to the royal shindig,” I would’ve earnestly entreated my past self, had it been possible. “It seems like genius now, but by the time he shows up your only wish will be to escape that bally dinner.”

Indeed, for some time I had been considering sneaking away, held back only by a desire to steal a word with my great-aunt if the opportunity arose. I had long since written off Seeker—the threshold for “fashionably late” having come and gone several hours ago—so it was a blow when this most chipper member of the Royal Guard sprung up, like Venus out of the sea, expecting an introduction to Sun Shimmer.  Still, there it was.

“What-ho, Seeker.” I managed to sound reasonably cheerful, I think, considering the circs..  We Roosters can wear the mask when necessary.  “So there you are.”

“I’m so sorry I’m late, Mr. Rooster, I had to—” He cut himself off with a gasp, practically vibrating with excitement.  “There he is, there’s Duke Sun Shimmer!” As he bounced up and down on the tips of his boots, I found myself hoping that the Royal Guards were screened thoroughly for health, because otherwise Seeker was surely at risk for a heart attack brought on by over-excitement. “Look, look, look! Wait, no, don’t look, he’ll see you looking!  Okay, now look!”

I didn’t look.  “Ye-es . . . You might want to curb your enthusiasm a bit, he’s rather . . . Well, what I mean to say is the course of true love never did run smooth. Right, Greaves?”

“Indeed, sir.  And, if I might be permitted to observe, rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.”

Before I could register surprise at Seeker and Greaves both coming up with this bit about rough winds in May—I mean, what are the odds?—the grey unicorn squared his jaw and steeled his eyes.  He now looked like he belonged on the cover of a book shelved near Only a Factory Filly, perhaps with a title like Soldier of Fortune, Soldier of Love or Battlefield of the Heart.

“Oh, I just know it won’t be easy for us.  A noblepony . . . a guard . . . worlds apart. But with True Love to guide us, we will—”

“Well, quite.”  Romantics always have to learn the hard way, it seems.  “All right, let’s go.”

“Pardon me, sir,” Greaves interjected in a soupy, disapproving tone.  “But is this gentlecolt proposing to meet the duke whilst wearing That?”

“What’s wrong with That—I mean, this?” Seeker stopped bouncing and frowned, looking down at his golden armour.  “I had it polished up and everything!”

“It’s very . . . . . nice, I’m sure, sir,” Greaves said, giving it the once over again.  “But entirely inappropriate for this venue.”

I repressed a sigh.  Though I appreciated him rallying around the young master in a time of need, I felt my valet could stand to be less of a doctrinaire when it came to mode of dress.  “Does it really matter, Greaves?”

“Proper attire always matters, sir.”

I wanted to tell him that after dinner, while he’d been fooling around in the Servants’ Hall or whatnot, I’d been formulating a scientific theory—based on an evening’s worth of field notes—which predicted that the specimen of Dukus sunshimmerus strutting around the ballroom was likely to turn down Seeker whether he was dressed properly, improperly, or not at all. But I could hardly say that with the guard standing right there, poor sap, and I had promised.  Noblesse oblige, I reminded myself.  A Rooster always gives it his all.

“Greaves is right, I suppose,” I told Seeker.  “You need a proper suit.”

“Well, I don’t have one,” he said, crestfallen and a bit petulant.  “And even if I did, I needed my uniform to get in.”

“How do you mean, ‘to get in’?”

“Well, gosh, Mr. Rooster!  What do you think my captain would say if he heard I’d been running around in a tux while I’m supposed to be on shift?  I’d be fired!”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s likely,” I soothed.  “Surely they wouldn’t give you the boot for missing one day or, rather, one night.  Even my Aunt Agate, who ties damsels to railway tracks and kills rats with her teeth, doesn’t necessarily grind a pony into the cobblestones the first time he fouls up.  She snarls quite a bit, certainly—”  Here I broke off because I noticed that Seeker was giving me a perturbed look.  Of course hearing about Aunt Agate is enough to perturb any pony.  Tactfully, I changed the subj.. “You’re sure you don’t have any tails hiding in the back of your wardrobe?”

“Tails?”

“Coat tails. Evening wear. The old swallow-tail suit.”

“No, nothing.”  He pawed at the floor.

Greaves cleared his throat.  “I believe I can find something suitable for him, sir, if you'll follow me.”

“Excellent, Greaves!” I beamed at him.  “Lead on!”

“Thank you, sir.”  He slid around the perimeter of the room and streamed through a small door paneled to look like part of the wall, leading to a hallway so narrow that I found myself dodging waiters and maids quite frequently. Our destination, it turned out, was an enormous linen closet.  At least I assume that’s what it was, since clean napkins and bed linens and other such abounded, piled high on the shelves.  As I wandered over and poked through the tablecloths, Seeker unshelled himself from his armour.  As promised, his coat lightened to a softer grey and his hair brightened a few shades. Surprisingly, his flank did not feature any kind of military hardware, but rather a telescope.

“If you’ll just hold still, sir . . .” Greaves whipped an efficient tape measure hither and thither, making it the work of a moment to take shoulder widths and inseams. “Ah, very good, sir.  I'll fetch a change of clothes for you immediately.”

“Oh, thank you so—” Seeker started to turn to Greaves, but he had already projected himself out the door in that mysterious manner of his, so he turned back to me instead. “Thank you so much for all your help! I can’t wait to meet the duke!”

“You’re quite welcome,” I said, despite feeling it was like setting up a lamb on a date with a tiger.  “Got your speech all mapped out for when you meet him?”

“You bet! In fact—” He hefted approximately three miles of parchment. “—I wrote it out as a poem!”

“Ah.” Of course he had.

“Would you like to hear it?”

“No, no, I wouldn’t like to trouble you—”

“Oh Sun Shimmer, with thy coat of gold,
Thy sweet nobility is foretold
In the kind cast of thy emerald gaze,
Which sets my poor heart all ablaze—”

“Very nice.  Gaze, ablaze. Couldn’t ask for a neater rhyme.  But don’t you think you ought to save that for—”

“—And kindles all the flames of love,
Like the soft shimmer of a dove
Upon whose iridescent breast
The sunlight’s gleam does coalesce.
The little sparrows all rejoice
Whene’er they hear thy dulcet voice—”

I will spare you the limitless stanzas that followed, as the thought of them brings a dull throbbing to my temples to this very day.  The worst was that every so often he’d stop and ask for my advice, forcing my consciousness to surge to the surface.  These occasions presented a something of dilemma;  I had to either blunder my way through without knowledge of the subject matter—this led to some awkwardness when I told him I’d found his last few lines enormously cheering and it turned out they had been about how his sundered heart was weary and generally in the dumps—or else ask him to repeat the previous stanza.  Requesting encores of this mushy, mashed-potatoes stuff caused me almost physical pain.

He was just asking whether “Butterflies, nectar for to gain” should be followed by “gently alight thy rose-red mane” or whether “gently alight thy fragrant mane” was more the ticket, and I was just thinking what a bunch of dumb bricks these butterflies were, when Greaves trickled back in carrying a parcel.

“I trust I am not interrupting, sir.  I found a set of clothes which I believe will suit the young gentlecolt admirably.”

I regarded his return with muted jubilation and assured him he was not interrupting.

“Oh, great!” Seeker opened the package via magic.  “I can’t tell you how much this means to me . . . What are these? Oh, I get it—sleeve cuffs.”

“No, no, those are spats,” I corrected.  “For your back hooves, you see?”

“Right, right. This is a sleeve cuff . . . Where’s the other one?”

“That is your shirt collar, sir,” Greaves sighed, rescuing the object in question from around Seeker’s ankle.

“Oh, I see!” he said, but his eyes were once again flitting back to his poem and I felt it was only a matter of moments before he started grilling me on a good rhyme for “moonlight.” As the only one that sprang to mind was “leaf blight”, I knew it was time for a strategic retreat.

“Well, Seeker, you stay here and let Greaves kit you out. I’ll, ah, go back to the ballroom and keep an eye on things, what?  Greaves—give it your best.” After acknowledging a very-good-sir from my valet and staving off a few more thank-you-thank-you’s from Seeker—he was a nice chap when he wasn’t torturing one with verse—off I trotted.

The buffet had served as a satisfactory base of operations before, and it seemed to me it might do so again.  There’s something rather cathartic about shoving a truffle back and forth, untasted, on a little plate. I suppose one could argue that, since my appetite is never particularly robust (leading to a lifetime of tiresome jokes about “eating like a bird”), I had been something of a dog in a manger by making the table my h.q. in the first place.  My response is that any dog who had suffered comparable duress was fully justified in having a dashed long nap in the hay, and nuts to the cow or ox who tried to disturb the poor pooch.  If the gentry had mentally classed me with plague-bearers and therefore shrunk away from my presence, well, that was no fault of mine.

Sure enough, the nobles flocked around the desserts took flight as I approached—literally in the case of the pegasi and figuratively in the case of the rest.  Ignoring this snub, I settled back on my haunches behind the table. I'd been watching the crowd for quite some time—at this late hour some ponies had begun to abandon the party, but Sun Shimmer was still out there, chatting with his peers—when I was startled to hear hoofsteps to my right.  Turning, I was doubly surprised to find my cousin had taken up residence at the table.  His hollow stomach had lured him out of hiding, judging by the way he was shoveling down tea cakes.

“August!  Good heavens.” He looked truly horrible at close range, like a pony who has had a serious disagreement with a carriage over who has the right-of-way in the street.

“Au-GUST,” he snapped, shooting off a glare.

“Well, quite. You’re not looking too peppy, Au—cousin.”

“Thank you, Birdy, for that newsflash. Why isn’t there any wine?”

“I rather think you drank it all.”

“They didn’t bring any more?” He made a scornful noise that started at the back of his throat and blew out through his teeth—his commentary, I gathered, on social gatherings with a limited supply of alcohol. “So . . . you’re still here.”

“As you can see, old thing. Though I’ve had a rather trying time of it.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Good.”

I reeled at this lack of sympathy. “You wound me.  Is not blood thicker than water?”

“No.”

This time I staggered. “No?”

“No. And you can stop flailing all over the place,” he added in a heated tone. “Maybe you’ll remember this little experience the next time you decide to wriggle your way into a party and suck up to the Peers.”

“Firstly, I would never do something as unbefitting as ‘sucking up’ to the gentry, and I am disappointed, cousin, greatly disappointed, that you would indulge in such common and vulgar slang. Secondly, it was on your behalf that I braved this miserable wake despite the fact that I am, as I said,  hardly having a jolly whiz-bang of a time.”

“Oh, on my behalf, I see. So that’s why everypony is rushing over to welcome me. Birdy to the rescue!”

I drew myself up. “True, my attempts at initiating a reconciliation between yourself and the well-born did not meet with unlimited success, but if I might point out, August, one can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.  Not that I have ever understood why anypony would attempt such a barbarous thing,” I added, “but the point is—you can’t.”

“Are you saying I’m a pig’s ear?”

“From the way Duke Shimmer was throwing your name around like it was an invective of the highest order—the kind of word that might crop up in a trial for slander, but only after the magistrate has warned that the delicate and very young should be cleared out of the courtroom—I should say you’d be dashed lucky to be considered the ear.”

“Duke Shimmer . . .” His brow furrowed, then he gave a snort. “You mean Sun Shimmer? As though anyone would listen to that hot-headed fool.”

“I hate to tell you this, but the crowd was positively hanging on his lips. Though I must agree,” I added, experiencing a sudden surge of cousinliness that bordered on camaraderie, “that he appears to be an offensive blighter completely lacking in the finer feelings.”

“He’s a crawler.”

“And a bounder.”

“And an idiot.” August sniffed down his nose.  “So you ran across him, hm?”

“More like he ran across me, roughshod.  By the by, does he have some grudge against you?”

“No, I don’t think so . . .”

“You didn’t tread on his cat or insult his sister or something?”

“He hates his sister.”

“Well, his mother then.”

“No, Birdy. I barely know him.  He’s only a duke.”

“Your mother’s a duchess.”

“That is entirely different.”

I didn’t quite follow this, but one expects a certain amount of looniness from close relatives. “Oh well.  Rest assured, I will clear off soon enough. One final collision with the Shimmer who is, as you say, merely a duke, and I shall shake the dust of this dinner party from my hooves and gladly.”

“Why?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “Why are you meeting him?”

“Oh, I have my reasons.” Naturally I wasn’t going to lay out the whole Seeker-Shimmer affair for his consumption.  A Rooster—or any gentlecolt of worth—does not bandy names about like a gossip columnist for the Society Spice. But as August was continuing to give me the wary look of a cat who suspects a stranger is secretly a veterinarian and is planning to test this theory with a lot of claw-work, I decided to change the subject with all due haste. “Look here, if you don’t want me taking an interest in your troubles, that’s fine by me!  You might even send a telepathogram to Aunt Agate saying as much. I don’t say that lacing the missive with glowing praise is in any way necessary, though I feel confident that you will realize, upon thoughtful reflection, that cousinly sympathy deserves to be rewarded.”

He didn’t agree, just pushed an empty platter around with the flat of his hoof and snorted a little, but didn’t actually refuse, either.  He was on the cusp, teetering, and I felt encouraged to give him a shove.

“It was only out of concern for you, dear flesh-and-blood, that I stuck my oar in to begin with.  I could tell you were in a pickle.”

“Hrmph.”

“Abandoned by your servants, slopping wine down your gullet like a common sot, going out in public looking—well, looking like that—more or less like you’re the lead in a tragedy, preparing to charge into the Third Act and soliloquize on how you’ve Lost It All—”  Noting that Cousin August’s expression had grown stony, I redoubled my efforts to show him that I understood the depths of his woes.  “Well, I mean to say, only a pony whose mind was in a deeply disturbed state would do such things.  Dashed painful to watch, you poor old egg.  When I first heard you’d shut yourself up in your room, I frankly thought you’d gone ‘round the bend—like Uncle Berry, you know—”

This got a strong reaction, though not the one I’d hoped for.  “You thought I was like Uncle Berry?”

“Er, not so much ‘like’, perhaps—”

“With the rabbits?”

“—as ‘tangentially similar in some ways’—”

“And the jelly?!”

From the way August was bristling, I decided another change of subject was called for, with all the rapidity I could muster.  Food often provides a suitable distraction in such situations, and so I shoved over the nearest dish with a bright smile.  “Have a fritter?”

By this point I had resigned myself to the fact that August was not brimming over with the milk of equine kindness when it came to his cousin Birdsong, but nevertheless it came as something of a shock when he slammed his hoof against the edge of the platter with enough force to send it somersaulting into the air.  Suddenly I found myself dodging six fritters (apple) followed by the serving plate itself (silver). Only by skipping around like a particularly lissome mountain goat taking part in a ballet did I manage to avoid the tumbling pastries.

What with the serving plate ringing against the marble tiles, I missed what he said next—something about “calculated insults”, I think—and by the time the dust (and apple filling) had settled, August Blueblood was stalking away in a huff.  I clicked my tongue, wondering if he’d gone out of his head after all. Does a mentally stable pony take offense when somepony offers him a bite to eat?  Does he hurl food about like an amateur juggler? (Well, maybe at the Drones, but that’s a bit different.) He does not.  Yet here was well-bred unicorn colt doing just that.  Inevitable, one might argue, when you consider that at a tender age he was already such an unstable character that he found mirth in shoving innocent ponies into puddles.  Still, sad, very sad, watching a pony’s descent.

Shaking my head sorrowfully, I decided to step away from the scene of this embarrassment—partly fired, I admit, by the fact that a couple of waiters were speeding over to clean up the mess and it would’ve been awkward to remain hanging around while they scrubbed.  At any rate, I felt I should see how Seeker was getting along;  he'd been absent a good long time.

I'd barely pushed off from the table when Princette Snow Shimmer suddenly fell into step beside me.  “Maybe you’re not the fool I took you for,” she said, apropos of nothing.  I would have preferred a greeting of “hallo!” or “what-ho!”, but by the standards of the night this was positively chummy, so I thanked her.

“That was skillfully done, at the buffet,” she continued. “Not pre-arranged?”

“What?  Oh . . . that.” Rather depressing, realizing August’s debacle had been witnessed by more than self, but then he had been rather loud. “Unplanned, certainly. Just a bit of nerves on my cousin’s part.”

“So modest,” she said in a cool, sarcastic sort of way, and added something about gadflies that I didn’t quite follow, as I was busy wondering how to shake her off.  I increased my strides, trying to outdistance her, but she doggedly kept pace. Apparently they had taught speed-walking at her finishing school.

“I wonder if you can satisfy my curiosity about something, Mr. Rooster,” she said, puffing slightly.

“What’s that, Princette?”

“Feeling, as you do, that my brother is ‘an offensive blighter’ why exactly do you wish to speak with him?”

I stopped in my tracks so suddenly that she overshot by ten feet before realizing she’d lost her walking companion.  Her expression, as she retraced her steps, was as calm as ever, with the slightest veneer of satisfaction.

“How—how do you know about that?  Were you—?” I cut off, struggling to find a way to ask the young lady a question that one doesn’t, technically speaking, ask a young lady.

She solved the problem neatly. “I was on the other side of that pillar over there. Eavesdropping.”

I would like to report that a blush rose to her cheeks, or that her eyes dipped to the side, or that this young gumboil showed some sign of remorse as she made this confession, but nothing could be further from the truth.  In fact, “confession” puts the wrong light on it;  her demeanor was less “pony unveiling a secret shame” and more “pony casually reporting the weather.”

“Well, of all the dashed nerve . . .”

Her lips curved into the type of smile you might see in a classical painting of a pegasus caesar tossing a few underlings to the harpies.  “Well, Mr. Rooster?”

“Dash it all . . . well, I mean to say!”  A deuced awkward situation . . . on the one hoof her behavior was simply the frozen limit, but on the other hoof I felt embarrassed to have been caught out calling her brother opprobrious names.  But then there was the third hoof, the fact that there didn’t seem to be any love lost between the two of them so she probably didn’t care what he got called anyway, and the fourth hoof, the fact that it wasn’t my place to spill the beans about Seeker’s romantic ambitions in any case.

Deciding to go with hooves One, Three, and Four, I spoke firmly. “I’m afraid it’s a private matter. Quite private.” I expected her to kick up a fuss at this, but she merely stared at me as though she was trying to bore into my brain and take a look at what was inside.  Most unpleasant. “So it’s no good asking me,” I continued, trying to get the message across, “because I can’t tell you anything about the topic of conversation, if any, that I mean to broach with him—”  

At this point I turned away—pointedly—and got a nasty surprise.  Not only was Duke Sun Shimmer shaking hooves with various nobleponies, but he was drifting towards the garden—clearly about to make good his escape. This spelled disaster for all our plans.  I mean to say, there’s no point in setting up a love scene only to have one half of it refuse to show.  Imagine if Romeo had arrived beneath the balcony and found it uninhabited. Quite the chump he’d have looked, tossing out juicy lines like “Soft! What light from yonder window breaks?”, only to find it was a gas-lamp that Juliet had neglected to turn off before going out on the town.  Immediate action would have to be taken to prevent Seeker from running into a similar sitch..

“—no, I cannot tell you anything about the topic of conversation, Princette, except that the duke will absolutely hate the subject from start to finish.”

“Oh, he will, will he?”  One of her eyebrows pulled itself up.

“Absolutely loathe it.”  I hoped, for the Royal Guard’s sake, that this wouldn’t be true, but this was no time to paint a rosy and optimistic picture.  “He’ll be as sick as mud.  I hope he knows a good dentist because he’ll probably grind his teeth down to stumps.”

“Hmmm.”

“All I need,” I persisted, “is somepony, anypony, to keep the duke planted at this party while I, er, fetch the . . . the surprise.  That I have for him.”

Her other eyebrow surged up dubiously.

“Trust me, he’ll . . .”  I paused, imagining the duke’s probable reaction to being informed that his voice was “twin to the babbling brook in spring / that maketh all of Nature sing.”  A smile rose unbidden to my lips.  “Well, he won’t know what to think, by jove.”

It was the smile, I’m sure, that convinced her.  “Perhaps I will go chat with my dear brother,” she said thoughtfully.  “I’m sure he won’t mind if I detain him a short time.”  

“That’s the ticket!” I encouraged her before speeding off.  Fortunately I didn’t encounter any servants in the hallway this time around, as I’m sure I would’ve knocked them over like ninepins.  As it was, I nearly skidded past the appropriate door.

I knocked with a hoof and the voices within, formerly engaged in muffled dialogue, fell silent.  A moment later Greaves pushed his head out.  

“Ah, good evening, sir.  You've arrived at a most opportune time.”  He flicked a glance behind him and uttered the last words I wanted to hear:  “We’ve run into a little difficulty.”

Next chapter:  Seeker versus dinnerwear, Greaves versus Proper Dress Codes, and Duke Sun Shimmer is surprised.

Sorry, no illustration in this one!  (This was part of a mega-chapter that got split in two, and the other half got the drawing . . .)

This fic is now over 100 pages long in its native Word doc!  Woohoo!

Chapter 10: Down the Garden Path

Chapter 10: Down the Garden Path

Misgivings swarmed up upon hearing there’d been “a little difficulty” on my valet’s end of things, although I did cling desperately to the adjective “little.”

“What kind of trouble, Greaves?  Tell me all, sparing no detail.”

“Very good, sir.”  He slipped into the hallway, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click.  “The fact is, sir,” he began in a low voice, “the young . . . gentlecolt . . . is having some reservations.”

“Cold feet about the duke, eh?”

“No, sir, reservations regarding the evening wear.”

“Hm!  Doesn’t it fit?”

“Oh yes, sir, very well indeed.”

“Well, I’d understand if it didn’t, we’re rather different sizes.”

“The suit is not one of yours, sir. I found suitable garments in the laundry facilities, freshly pressed.”

It took me a moment to process this.  “You mean to say that you pinched some cove’s clothes?!”

“Borrowed, sir. The domestic staff will wash the garments again before they’re returned to their owner.”

“Well . . . I suppose one extra wearing won’t do them any harm,” I said doubtfully. “But is it a regular thing, this musical-chairs stuff with the laundry?”

“No indeed, sir. But desperate times . . .”

“Quite. And these are the desperatest.”

“Precisely, sir.”

“I still don’t get the problem, though.”

“Perhaps it would be easiest to show you, sir.”  He opened the door.

Well, my first thought was that Greaves had been putting me on, perhaps out of eagerness to surprise the young master with a job well done.  Because that’s what it looked like—a job well done, I mean.  He’d stuffed that unicorn into a suit so well fitted that he might’ve been poured into it—a traditional black tailcoat, though the waistcoat was a rather startling sky blue.  (“To counteract the gentlecolt’s monochrome colouring,” Greaves later informed me.) With his mane combed out of the military mohawk and a neat pair of spats on the appropriate set of hooves, he looked fairly dapper and not in the least like a guard. It now seemed to me possible—just—that he might actually make a hit with Sun Shimmer.

Cheered by this, I greeted him in good spirits.  “Hallo again, Seeker!”

The grey unicorn set down the scroll he’d been editing and turned around.  And as he did so my initial, cheerful thought was superseded by a second, gloomier one, namely that we were in a good deal of trouble.

You know those little tin toys that are wound up with a key, the kind that stutter along for a few steps before falling over?  Right.  Now, you know the way sea lions move about—kind of humping themselves along?  Well, if you can imagine a gait combining the stiff, lifeless leg-jerks of a wind-up toy with just a hint of the awkward, hunchbacked posture of a sea lion, then you will have a pretty good idea of Seeker’s bearing as he turned towards me.

I stared; I was dimly aware that my mouth was hanging open.  “What in Equestria is wrong with you?”

“It’s these darn clothes!”  Seeker made as though to stomp the ground, but only got as far as bending his leg—in the stiffest, most uncoordinated way imaginable—before nearly falling over.  “They don’t fit!”

“With all due respect, sir, they do,” Greaves put in, his brows lowering the tiniest fraction.  “You simply require a period of adjustment.”

“They require a period of adjustment!”

I frowned. “They’re fine.  Top notch quality, and you could hardly get a better fit if they were tailored for you.  What’s your kick against them?”

“I can’t kick in them, that’s the problem.  I can barely walk!”  His horn lit up as he fretted with the sleeves, tugging them first up and then down.  “I’ve never been so uncomfortable in my life . . . and I wear fifty pounds of armour every day, so that’s saying something!  Look, can’t I just change back?”

“You really need only endure it for a short amount of time, sir.”

“Just walk normally, can’t you?  Bend your knees in the front and straighten out your back.”

The grey unicorn trotted—well, walked—well, tottered around the room. “It chafes.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”  He tugged at the high, white wing-collar rounding his neck.  “Can’t I at least get rid of this thing?  What’s it made of, brambles?”

“It’s cotton, you silly ass.”

“Indeed, sir. Starched for stiffness.”

“Well, it’s awful! Just awful!”

“Seeker, listen. No, leave the collar alone and listen.  It’s not that I don’t sympathize.  When I was a little nipper, my aunt—”

“The one who eats rats?”

“No, no, that’s Aunt Agate.  This was another of my auntly menaces, Charade.  At one point, when I had the misfortune to be in her custody, she stuffed me into the hottest, silliest velvet suit you can fathom, a garment that started where Little Lord Fauntleroy’s attire left off—”

“Who’s Little Lord Fauntleroy?”

“Never mind who he is.  Just imagine a foal drowning in lace and velvet and you’ll have the right idea.  And, yes, my first reaction was to struggle and itch and sulk.  But mark my words, by the time she actually dragged me to the museum in this bally outfit, I realized there was no point worrying about it.  And once we got there several ponies complimented me—well, her actually—on what a dear little colt I looked.”

This story did not appear to set Seeker aglow. “So you got dragged around in lace all day? That sounds sort of terrible.”

I paused.  In fact there was a sequel to this story, and it involved young Birdsong inadvertently getting left at the National Gallery. The first thing I had done upon realizing this was to toss the offending suit into a public fountain and dash around in the buff, chased by a posse of museum watchponies.  But Seeker did not need to know these irrelevant little details.

“On the contrary, I had the best time I’ve ever had in an art gallery, bar none!  And you’ll have a spiffing evening too, if you just try to adapt. Why don’t you move around a bit and see if you can’t get comfortable?”

“Weeeell. All right, I guess.”

“That’s the spirit! Good show!”  Brave words, but my heart sank as I watched him make another wobbly circuit around the room.  “A word in your ear, Greaves?”

“Certainly, sir.”

I drew him aside.  “Greaves, if we send him out there like that, the duke’s liable to think he’s having some kind of fit.  Or else that he was born without kneecaps . . .”

“I agree that he presents a less than perfect appearance, sir, but with a little more time and practice—”

“We haven’t got time, dash it!  Sun Shimmer is even now preparing to abandon the festivities!”

“I see, sir. I hadn’t realized that,” the earth pony said in a distracted sort of way.  I looked over my shoulder to find that Seeker was now sitting on the floor, scratching frantically at his front elbow like a dog with fleas.

“Oh gods.” I buried my nose in the crook of my leg to hide this sorry spectacle. “Maybe we should just send him out au naturel.”

“Sir!  That would hardly be appropriate for a—”

“I know, I know, I know, I know. I was being face—farce—”

“Facetious, sir?”

“Yes, that. All the same, I mean to say! Look at him!”

We both looked.  And shuddered.

After a moment of pained silence, Greave said, “Perhaps if we simplify the outfit, sir.”

“Strip it down to the bare essentials, you mean?”

“Precisely, sir.  If we discard the tailcoat and waistcoat, his main causes of complaint, but retain the collar, the bow tie, and the hoofwear . . .”

“And slap a top hat on his melon. I think you’ve got something there.  Carry on, Greaves.”

“Very good, sir.”

“But be quick about it, for goodness sake!  I’ll delay the duke as long as I can.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Right-ho.”  I turned back to the guard, patting his shoulder.  “Just . . . listen to Greaves, will you?  There’s a good chap.” And with that I galloped back to the ballroom.

The party was definitely dying off by the time I returned. Princette Cloud Dreamer was marching her little army out of the ballroom in double-time, Rarity the Unicorn was exiting in close conjunction with a pegasus who was, if memory serves, a lord of some kind, and the buffet table had been picked clean in my absence. Cousin August was nowhere to be seen and neither, to my alarm, was Duke Sun Shimmer.  Fortunately when I extended my search to include the garden I discovered that his sister had cornered him against a border of perennials.  They were expressing their deep, familial affection in their usual way.

“Do not start congratulating yourself yet, dear brother,” the princette was hissing as I cautiously approached. “Duke Finch-Freely and Duchess Ravenwaves have been planning their advancement for some time, and if you think their allies will vote for you over them—”

“I’m not afraid of Finch-Freely or Raven,” the duke said breezily.  “Did Princette Cloud Dreamer introduce them to her friends? Did Mirror Mirror compliment their horse-sense? Mmm, yes, ‘Prince Sun Shimmer’ . . . it has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“You can hardly count yourself as their protégé after one night.”

“Oh can’t I?  Just because it took you years to garner support, dear sister, does not mean every pony is so talentless.”

From the expression on Snow Shimmer’s face, there was an increasing likelihood that I would be introducing Seeker to a freeze-dried corpse unless I intervened. “What-ho, Shimmers!”

“You!” Duke Sun Shimmer said, as he had at frequent intervals throughout the night.  This time he seemed genuinely surprised by my presence, however. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I wanted a word with you, actually. In private, if you don’t mind.”

The duke flicked his ears backwards and forwards as though checking their functionality.  “You are expecting me to . . . to talk with you?” he said, as though I’d suggested that he jump off a cliff or set himself on fire.  

“Of course not,” Snow Shimmer butted in.  “He was addressing me, naturally.”

“Er . . .”

“He was certainly not addressing you, Snow, since he was looking straight at me.”

“Possibly his attention was briefly drawn to the spinach stuck in your teeth,” Snow Shimmer said coolly.  (Her brother hastily raised a hoof in front of his mouth.)  “But his invitation was clearly aimed at me, nonetheless.”

“You’re delusional, but it’s you’re funeral. Don’t blame me when you get demoted to duchess!”

Snow Shimmer put her hoof aside her mouth and whispered in a carrying voice: “You must excuse my brother. He has never been known for his tact.  Little wonder his attempts to gain a princehood have failed to bear fruit.”

“They’re going to bear plenty of fruit!” the yellow unicorn snapped.

“Pathetic, is he not?  So feeble are his political allegiances,” she continued, probably not audible to anypony more than twenty feet away, “that he dares not be seen with you, for fear of offending the old nags to whom he kowtows—”

“I do NOT kowtow!”

“—whereas I, being well-established in the upper echelon of the Council, fear nothing and no one.”  She offered a bright smile.  “But enough about him, Mr. Rooster!  There has been a great deal of talk about how you publically snubbed your cousin, the prince . . . I’m sure we have much to discuss to our mutual benefit.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that I snubbed him exac—”  I broke off as Sun Shimmer suddenly leapt into my field of vision.  His chest was heaving with some pent up emotion which, judging by the expression on his map as he faced off with the princette, was probably fury.

“Listen, my dear, opportunistic leech of a sister!  He did NOT come over here to talk to you, he does NOT want your company, and I do NOT have spinach in my teeth! Isn’t that right?” he demanded, swinging a menacing look in my direction.

“Oh, quite. Yes, yes, yes,” I said hastily, though truthfully the answers to his questions, in the order named, were yes, yes, and no.  “It was actually you I wanted to speak with. My apologies, princette.”

“How extremely rude!” She gave me a glare so hammy it might as well have rolled in a mudhole and oinked.

“HA!  You see?” The duke turned away from her smugly.  “Come on . . . Mister . . . Whatever.”

“It's Rooster, Birdy Rooster,” I clarified, trotting after him.

Well, you had to admire the filly’s sleight-of-hoof, what?  If you had told the duke at the start of the evening that he would later, of his own free will, engage in a tête-à-tête with one Birdsong Rooster—or “one Mister Whatever”, as the case might be—I imagine he would have snorted and said “Poppycock!” or “What rot!” or whatever the Upper Canterlotian equivalent of those phrases was. But apparently no opportunity to score off his sister was to be missed or scorned. It was all to the best that he did not happen to take a backwards glance, as I did, and see Princette Snow Shimmer steaming towards a knot of the gentry with a spring in her step and a gloating smile on her face.  I picked up my pace, hoping the more isolated paths of the garden would prove to be ground she feared to tread.  

I don’t know if you’ve ever taken a jaunt through the Royal Gardens, but if you haven’t, let me just say that they are not without their hazards. It’s bursting to the gills with animal life—not just the usual squirrels and rabbits, but also exotic fauna like spider monkeys and vultures and I don’t know what all.  Once, when I was a kid, I dashed down a path rather too fast—I was playing tag and trying to outdistance the colt who was “it”—and ended up slamming right into a wallaby.  The creature, noticeably pipped at this intrusion into its private life, vented its feelings by getting in some good, solid kicks before disappearing into the undergrowth.

Due to memories of this rather painful episode, I was happy to let Sun Shimmer blaze the trail on this occasion, flushing out any wayward and irate animals, while I hung back a ways, strolling along and pondering the intended programme, which ran along the lines of:

1.  Put in some preliminary spadework for Seeker, talking him up like a used-carriage salespony trying to offload a particularly cumbersome model.

2.  Wait for said guard to pop out of the bushes and proclaim his love for the duke.

3.  Exit, stage left, at a gallop.

4.  Raid that bally museum.

Introducing the subject of this lovelorn guard was going to be the trickiest part, in my estimation. Romeo, if you’ll recall, didn’t start flinging terms of endearment at Juliet until he actually spotted her and decided, right-ho, this was the genuine dream-rabbit.  I imagine if someone had tried to talk her up before then, he would have snorted, laid his ears back, and had none of it. “Why ring out the wedding bells with this filly from a rival family,” he would’ve said, “when I could have a father-in-law who won’t try to poison my tea?  There are plenty more beets in the field!”  

It seemed to me I could not count on any greater show of enthusiasm from Duke Sun Shimmer.  Possibly even less, considering Seeker’s station, despite the fact that his family was not (so far as I knew) in a blood feud with the Shimmer clan.  As for the Love At First Sight gag, it was all well and good, but what if it didn’t take off?  Rather a gamble, and at odds that made me reluctant to run to the bookies.  The only thing for it, I decided, was to try to rev up Sun Shimmer’s romantic side, awakening the poetry that—according to Seeker—was lurking in his heart, and hope that the Royal Guard would strike him as being a twin soul.  

Luckily the gardens themselves would serve as a stalwart ally in this endeavor, being positively soggy with romantic atmosphere, partic. at this hour.  Night had well and truly settled, with moths and bats flitting above the roses.  The birch and willows dripped with vines covered with those niffy white flowers that wait until after-hours to make an appearance, and the blue and purple fairy lanterns that hung in the boughs were hardly necessary as the moon, nearly full, drifted over the trees at a leisurely pace.  A scene practically ripped off the cover of a second edition of maudlin poetry, I mean to say.

And if ever there was a moment when Duke Sun Shimmer was in a good mood this was it, while he was still muttering things like “Ha!” and “I showed her!”

I sped up my pace to draw beside him.  “Nice night,” I said as an opening gambit.

He started a bit, reluctantly remembering my existence.  “What?  Oh, the night.  Yes, it's nice.”

“The stars punching in their timecards.” I waved a hoof heavenward.

“True.”

“The crickets heading out for a night on the town.”

“Yes.”

“A balmy breeze drifting through the roses, if balmy is the word I’m after.”

This time he didn’t say anything, just eyed me.  Despite the cool night, a slight sheen of sweat dampened my brow.  His expression was not that of a pony who was about to start framing the beauty of the night in rhyme and iambic pentameter;  it was more like that of a pony wondering how he had let himself be talked into something, and how soon he could get out of it.

“What, exactly,” he said at last, “did you want to talk to me about?”

“Well . . . it’s a funny old world, isn’t it?” I said. I paused to give him the opportunity to agree, but he just raised an eyebrow, so I pushed onward. “Take these roses I was talking about. Nice, what?”

He agreed that they were nice, though without much enthusiasm.

“Of course, my Aunt Dahlia  would probably say they were infested with aphids or root rot,” I added, “and get into a tussle with the gardener.  But that’s neither here nor there.”

“Indeed, it’s not.”

“But anyway, these roses.”  I gazed at them a bit desperately, having no idea how to continue.  I was sure the Bard had written some fairly fruity stuff about the genus Rosa, but every line of it had retreated to my subconscious and seemed determined to hunker down there for a good long stretch. Giving up on Classic Literature, I seized on the first idea that leapt to mind.  “Roses.  Yes.  Most ponies just see them as an attractive bit of landscaping, you know.  But some ponies, or perhaps I should say one pony in particular, would look at them and immediately chart out a connection between these blooms and the object of his affection.”

“Huh?”

“‘Butterflies, nectar for to gain / gently alight his rose-red mane’,” I quoted, looking at him hopefully.  Well, it wasn’t exactly received to rave reviews;  in fact, the duke stared at me as though I was speaking in tongues.

“What in Equestria are you talking about? What butterflies?” His eyes shifted from me to the flowers and back again.  “And they’re not red, they’re pink.”

I saw I had painted myself into a corner and accordingly tried to leap clear.  “All right, never mind about the roses.  Forget about roses, red, pink, or otherwise.  The fact is, I’m acting as a sort of messenger.  Carrying a message,” I specified, breaking it down into terms that even he could comprehend.

His ears, which had been flattened back, swiveled slowly forwards with grudging interest.  “From who? If it’s Prince Blueblood—”

“You may rest assured this has nothing to do with my princely cousin,” I said firmly.  “Quite another matter.”

“So who is it then?  Princette Royal Purple?” he asked with a sudden burst of animation. “Or, no, Crystal Crown, is it Crystal Crown?”

“Er . . . let’s keep walking, shall we?”  I moved along the moonlit path, following its curve until it opened into a little clearing hedged about with willow trees, a glade with a couple trails leading out of it—or into it, if you prefer.

I was about to point out the moon, to reset the mood, but Sun Shimmer didn’t give me a chance.  “So-o-o-o?” he asked, his tail twitching impatiently.  “Who?”

“As it happens it’s a friend of mine.”  Overstating things a bit, as Seeker was more of an acquaintance, but faint praise ne’er won fair noble, or however it goes. “A very dear friend,” I added, stretching the truth until it twanged.

A good portion of the yellow unicorn’s eagerness ebbed away. “A friend of yours?” he said, much as my Aunt Dahlia might have said, “Slugs on my petunias?”  He pawed at the grass with a hoof. “Well, who is this friend and what’s the message?”

“The message, ah yes.  The message is . . . Well, it’s a funny old world, isn’t it?”

“Oh gods, this again!”

“No, but listen!  It is, isn’t it?  I mean to say, here we are in the capital city, with the Princess heaving the sun over the horizon every morning, its light shining,” I said, remembering a good gag from my school days, “on the just and the unjust . . . Well, it really makes you think, doesn’t it?”

Sun Shimmer’s expression was sardonic as he opened his mouth, perhaps to share exactly what he thought, but at that moment a moth that had been bumping up against a fairy lantern made a sharp swerve and flew down his gullet.  As the duke choked and hacked, I mentally saluted the insect for its timely martyrdom and hurried on:

“What I mean is . . . there’s quite a lot going on in the city every day, what? Bakers baking, tradesponies, um, laying bricks and making horseshoes and whatnot, servants bringing tea, and guards,” I said, reaching my destination at last, “marching about keeping the Princess’ peace and looking quite dressy while doing so, really.  One has to admire them, don’t you think?”

With a final thump to his chest, the duke recovered from his coughing fit.  He took a few breaths before weighing in with his opinion. “Get to the point! I didn’t come out here to talk about guards.”

Well, he had, really, but clearly this wasn’t the moment to reveal that.  “Um, yes.  I was telling you about this friend of mine, wasn’t I?  A unicorn, you know, practically fizzing with magic.  Now admittedly he’s . . . er . . . not exactly one of the noblesse—”

“Oh joy.  Better and better.  And how much does this untitled ‘friend’ of yours want?”

It took me a moment to follow his logic.  “No, no, he’s not looking for a handout; that’s not it at all.  As a matter of fact he’s, erm, well, he’s—Well, it’s a funny old world, isn’t it?”

“For Celestia’s sake.” He slapped a hoof over his eyes.

I tugged at my collar, wishing somepony else—Greaves, perhaps—had volunteered for this unpleasant duty.  But it was time to take the hurdle, for better or for worse. “The fact is, Duke Shimmer, he—this friend of mine—has rather fallen for you.”

His hoof lowered slowly.  “‘Fallen’?  You mean, as in—”

“Fallen in love, that’s right.” The incredulous expression on his face did nothing to help my nerves, and in fact I could feel my cheeks heating.  Still, now that I had sketched a quick outline of the sitch., there was nothing to do but fill in the details.  “He happened to see you one day and just like that, boomps-a-daisy, head over hooves.  And it’s been eating away at him ever since, you see.  The amount of thought he’s given your eyes alone—well, you’d be amazed.  He’s been churning out masses of poetry—”

“Perhaps about my mane,” the duke interrupted with a level look, “being red like a rose?”

I felt a surge of relief now that he was getting on board, and rewarded him with a friendly smile. “Quite so. ‘Butterflies, nectar for to gain / gently alight your rose-red mane’ and all that. Although he did give some serious consideration to the adjective ‘fragrant’ as well.”

“Good to know.  My life is richer for that knowledge.”

“Is it?  Then you’ll be glad to know he’s written reams of the stuff, all giving a very favorable view of you.  ‘The little birds’, for example, ‘all rejoice / whene’er they hear your dulcet voice.’”

“I’ll bet they do. I’ll just bet.”

“He’s even been following you around off and on hoping to—”

“Bump into me?”

“Exactly.”  

“Repeatedly?”

“Er . . . one supposes so.”  I was beginning to feel there was something rummy about the duke’s reaction. Regardless of whether he greeted the news with smiles or sneers, I had expected Sun Shimmer to open up a line of questioning regarding the mystery colt.  I had not considered the possibility that he would display a total lack of curiosity and simply fix me with a stare.  It was hard to tell in the dark, but I was inclined to categorize said stare as “sour.”

I was considering waiting him out when I heard a soft rustle from the mass of trees behind me which suggested a certain guard might be in the offing, waiting for his cue to leap on stage.  And since the sooner he made his debut the sooner I could retreat, I was anxious to help him make his grand entrance as soon as possible, to cheers and applause.

“So that’s the lay of the land,” I concluded, raising my voice to slightly.  “And if you would like to hear the full extent of the ode he’s written for you, that can certainly be arranged in short order.  It’s—”

“Are you . . . out of . . . your MIND?” The duke must have been building up a good head of steam for a while, but the first I knew about it was when he surged forward, giving me a good view of the flames leaping in his eyes and the spinach still lodged in his teeth.  “You think . . . you really think . . .”  Here he reeled a bit, like an actor determined to wring the most out of a death scene.

“Now hang on,” I said, holding up a hoof. “I know poetry isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but this is some fairly heady stuff, and it all rhymes.  Case in point: ‘Oh Sun Shimmer with your coat of gold, thy sweet nobility’s foretold’—”

“STOP!” he bellowed, a vein in his forehead throbbing impressively.  Just as well since I couldn’t remember the rest of the verse.  “Stop talking, stop bothering me, and STOP following me around!”

He started to stalk away, but I dodged around to intercept.  “Look, just let me say my piece—”

“You’ve already said it!” he snapped.  “So let me say my piece!  If you think that I am interested in tying my fortune and future to a . . . a . . . an untitled nobody, then you are sadly mistaken, Mister Rooster!”

My heart bled freely for poor Seeker.  “That’s a rather unenlightened view, isn’t it? ‘The rank is but the guinea stamp!’  A quotation that refers, you’ll be interested to know, to the way raw gold is transformed into coinage by—”

“I know exactly what the line refers to,” he answered (though his heated tone held no hint of pleasure at meeting another pony blessed with a classical education). “And it’s bunk. Complete BUNK.  The gold that matters is the type stored in vaults, and the rank is the way to get it.  So please let you friend know that he’s wasting his time and mine.  If your friend is so desperate for companionship, perhaps your friend should find someone of his own meager social status to hobnob with—”

A dark shape suddenly burst out of the bushes to the right in a sort of explosion of leaves, barreling past us and up the garden path, accompanied by a mournful wail. Sun Shimmer, startled to find the shrubbery unexpectedly disgorging ponies, rocketed into the air like a disturbed pheasant while I—hardly any more sanguine, not having expected any action from the starboard—leapt sideways like a startled fawn, thereby crashing into Snow Shimmer.  

“Wait a tick,” I hear you saying.  “You mean Sun Shimmer, don’t you?  Yellow unicorn, bad attitude, spinach in his teeth?”  An understandable assumption, but no.  Princette Snow Shimmer, backed by a small herd of the well-born and—oddly—a pegasus with a camera and a press card in his hat, chose that very moment to come strolling in along one of the other paths.  She paid for it by getting involved in a two-pony collision that probably rattled her teeth and certainly rattled mine.  She recovered swiftly, though, with more than enough time to get the first word in.

“Oh MY!” were the words in question.

“Oh no.”  The duke’s expression was somewhere between appalled and furious. “Go AWAY, Snowy!” he hissed. She didn’t.

“Oh MY,” she repeated, gesturing broadly towards self and Sun Shimmer, but addressing the nobles who had crowded around to help her up. “Have you ever seen such a shameful sight?”  Apparently they hadn’t.  They shook their heads as the photographer surged forward to snap a few pictures. “Too shocking for words, finding my dear brother colluding with that . . . disreputable colt. Blueblood’s cousin.”

Having planted a hoof over my face, I didn’t actually see the pony in the back faint this time, but I heard the thud against the turf, though it was barely audible over the collective gasp of the crowd and the grinding of Sun Shimmer’s teeth.  By the time I lowered my hoof, Sun Shimmer was stalking across the grass to confront his sister.  I simultaneously decided it was wisest to back away from them.

“Snow Shimmer, if you don’t march your rabble out of here right this second—”  

“I’m not the one associating with rabble, dear brother. You’re . . .”  

Abruptly she broke off, her face that of a pony disgorging a racy tidbit of gossip just as an especially prudish aunt stalks in.   Her eyes grew wide.  Her face paled to a sicklier shade of purple.  And suddenly her head dropped to point towards the turf.

“What in Equestria . . .” the duke muttered as Snow Shimmer’s little throng suddenly gasped—not quite in sync, something had thrown them off their stride—and imitated the princette’s posture.

Brow furrowed, Sun Shimmer turned ‘round . . . and immediately his eyes grew large as dinner plates, or at least bread plates.  For a few seconds I had the disagreeable feeling that he was staring at me; then I realized he was staring past me, at something to my aft, which was hardly any more pleasant.  Bracing myself for the worst, I turned to see what was behind me.  I’ll tell you frankly I was rather expecting it to be a wallaby.  Not that that would make much sense—the proper thing to do when you see a wallaby is to speed away from it, not freeze and aim your nose at the grass—but past associations can be jolly strong, and my most unpleasant moment in the garden—excepting the time I’d spent in Sun Shimmer’s company on the present date—had involved an angry marsupial.  Once kicked, twice shy.

Imagine my relief and delight when I instead found myself gazing across the dell at Princess Celestia, standing there on her long, graceful legs and wearing the most serene expression.  Her white coat and flowing mane glowed like anything in the moonlight and the jewel in her crown, reflecting the fairy lanterns in the willows, couldn’t make up its mind if it wanted to be blue or purple.  

“Auntie!” I burst out, giving a little rear before charging over to her.  As I think I have mentioned, there’s something about the kindly smile of this noble relative that acts as an instant pick-me-up, filling the world with sunshine and song.  And although a literal ration of sunlight was in short supply at this time of night, my heart was certainly sunny enough as she leaned down to drop her neck over mine in a hug.

“My dear nephew. Was that you hiding behind the centerpiece?”

“Right on the nose!  Doing a bit of jungle recon, what what?”

“I see.”  Chuckling, Great-Aunt Celly patted my head with the leading edge of her wing, knocking off my top hat in the process, not that I minded.  “And have you found a place to stay, dear?  If not . . .”

“Oh, that’s all taken care of, don’t worry.  Er . . . I’ve been here a couple of weeks, actually.  Tried to darken your doorstep, but a bligh—a secretary-looking chap told me in no uncertain terms that I was the last thing your doorstep needed as decoration.”

Understanding blossomed in her eyes. “That must have been Mr. Tock.  Very efficient, but somewhat . . . overzealous at times. I’ll speak to him.”

“Right-ho! Thanks awfully!” I beamed up at her.  She smiled down at me. The moths tumbled past in an approving sort of way.  Perfect harmony, broken only by the fact that I could see Snow Shimmer and Sun Shimmer in my peripheral vision, the princette with her head bobbing up and down slightly as she tried to decide whether to stare or not and the duke boggling with his mouth open, like a pony seeing a vision.

Great-Aunt Celly probably saw them too—no, she certainly saw them, because Auntie’s sharp as a tack and it would take a better pair than an eavesdropping princette and boorish duke to get the better of her, by golly!  And indeed, with a measured tread Princess Celestia moved across the clearing to get inspect the knot of nobles.

“Good evening, Lady Slipper, Duke Finch-Freely,” she said, examining the ponies who had entered the glade close on Snow Shimmer’s heels.  “And how are you on this lovely night, Lord Star Dasher?”  

The assorted gentry looked up, stammering out answers, with Star Dasher adding it was a beautiful night, incredibly beautiful, probably the most beautiful night he’d ever seen, not that every night wasn’t beautiful, of course, because they all were.  Great-Aunt Celly simply nodded, just as though he wasn’t borderline incoherent.

“And you’re one of the princettes, aren’t you?  Snow Shimmer, I think?  Who’s your friend?” The Princess’ eyes slid to the white pegasus with the camera.

He pulled his hat off and held it to his chest, clearing his throat.  “Uh, the . . . the name’s Paper Negative, Your Highness.”

“Paper Negative . . . Oh yes, I’ve heard of you.”  Princess Celestia glanced at his cutie mark—a black-and-white photograph with the colours reversed from what they ought to be.  “And are you enjoying the garden? Paper Negative?”

“Oh yes!  Beautiful flowers!  I thought I’d . . . take some pictures of them,” the pegasus said, grinning and shifting rapidly from hoof to hoof.  “I love flowers!!”

“Hwuh!” Sun Shimmer interjected, his first contribution to the conversation though not a particularly valuable one.  Everyone gazed curiously at him, and his ears wilted . . .  though he did finally manage to close his mouth, at least.

“Have you met Birdsong, Princette Shimmer?” Great-Aunt Celly inquired, patting my back with her wing.  (Very nice, very gentle.  I’ve often wished Aunt Dahlia would follow Great-Auntie’s example, instead of slapping me so heartily on the back that my hooves sink into the ground like tent stakes.)  “My dear nephew is here visiting from the Queendom.  How are my nieces doing these days, Birdy? They’re well, I hope?”

“Oh, buzzing along like anything, Auntie.”

“Duchess Traverse?”

“Fit as a fiddle.”

“Duchess Chanticleer?”

“Healthy as a horse.  And Cousin Angel,” I added, “is just finishing up her treatise on sharks.”

“Well, well!  Good for her.”  She paused to once more regard Duke Sun Shimmer, who had just made a gurgling noise deep in his throat.  But when no further business resulted, the Princess gave up on that quarter and turned back to the assembled.

“I must be going now, my little ponies.”  She inclined her head with a smile to acknowledge their (collective) bow, to which I added a hasty bow of my own, just a bit after the fact.  She moved to the edge of the clearing before inquiring over her shoulder, “Would you care to join me, nephew?”

“Rather!”  I gamboled over to her—if not quite like a lamb in spring, then at least close enough that a lamb of that season would nod approvingly at my technique.  I had just reached her side when it suddenly struck me . . . my hat was still back there, lying in the grass.  “Oh!  But I should really—”  I started to pivot, but a shimmering white wing gently turned me back towards the path.  

“Not just now, my dear,” Great-Aunt Celly whispered, her neck a graceful arch.  “Give him some time to think about what you’ve said.”  She straightened and ruffled my forelock.  “And what I’ve said.”

Puzzled, I followed her, casting one more glance over my shoulder.  The nobleponies were watching our departure in their usual cluster, aside from Sun Shimmer, who was off on his own a bit. He no longer looked aghast.  

Instead he looked thoughtful.

Next chapter:  Princess Celestia to the rescue . . . ?

I came across “dream-rabbit” in one of Wodehouse’s Blandings Castle books and just had to use it.  It seems to mean the same thing as “baa-lamb.”  If you want to know what a baa-lamb is, you will have to ask Birdy’s friend Lala.

Aunt Charade (pronounced, of course, as "SHUH-rahd") is vaguely based on Bertie Wooster's Aunt Charlotte, whom he referred to a couple times in less-than-loving tones.  I decided the pony version was the youngest and most fashionable of his aunts, who had a tendency to regard him as a sort of accessory, like a purse-dog, when he was a small foal.

Sorry once again that it takes me so long between chapters!  My life is super busy at the moment, so my writing time is sporadic.  On the upside, I finally broke 50,000 words and this is the longest chapter to date!