From any passersby, any sort of observer at all, it was just another small, rundown apartment on Saint’s Whistle. Squarish and plain, with a small strip of grass more brown than green, it looked precisely like the neighboring units—all of which looked exactly like their neighbors. The sidewalk passing by was cracked and flaking. Saint’s Whistle itself—an old, old street—was a faded grey and potted with holes broken only by the occasional bump.

The trashy monotony was only broken at the far point of the street’s cul-de-sac end. There sat the long-abandoned church where the street’s namesake had originated. Its doors were boarded up; its windows broken. Graffiti covered the peeling white sides, covering the once hallow building with profanity and despair.

No different were the people who lived here. They too seemed as if they might have once been wholesome and pure, but were now old and dilapidated. They sat on the curb, smoking and throwing dice; others walked, directionless, their eyes not holding in any one direction as they remembered the better times or contemplated the future darkness. They ignored one another, unless money or sex was involved. Old hints of happier times—a bent basketball goal, a single strand of net flying in the wind; broken toys scattered in every other yard; the barest remnants of chalk lines, drawn for games but splashed and stained with old oil and worse—emphasized the decay.

Outsiders spent as little time on Saint’s Whistle as they could. A wrong turn was quickly corrected, often adding to the various skid marks along the circle. Those lost, wandering in, either left with lighter pockets or didn’t leave at all. The police had stopped coming years ago. No one wanted to visit Saint’s Whistle.

But even still, some felt they had to.

Daring or stupid, likely a bit of both, the city’s mail carriers had never stopped the routes through Saint’s Whistle. Every other day, his windows up and doors locked, the mailman drove down the short straight and circled the cul-de-sac. At each apartment, he would stop then gather the needed mail. He would wait until he was sure no one was within twenty feet. Then, as quickly as he could, he would roll down the passenger side window and toss the mail into the yard of its recipient. The window would go up immediately, and he would repeat the process three dozen times or so until he could safely leave.

It was on one of these days that he stopped across from the apartment that seemed no different from any of the others. Looking at his list, he was surprised to see that he needed to deliver an actual package. That was far from his usual fare of overdue bills and eviction notices, spiced up with the occasionally scam sweepstakes’ letter. Why it couldn’t be just another newspaper—this week’s thick heading reading, “Suspects In National Terrorism Still Roam Free!”—was beyond him.

He swallowed hard. It was sizable enough—and marked FRAGILE to boot—that he’d have to deliver it personally to the door. Which meant leaving the relative safety of his vehicle. Going through on the postal service’s promise to deliver no matter the conditions was one thing. Putting himself at risk—no! Putting his deliveries, the mail, at risk for a simple package was quite another.

Ignoring the thought, he turned around and dug through his bag, thankful for a moment’s distraction. After a few hesitant minutes, he brought it up. It was a small box, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with rough twine. On one side was taped a piece of paper. The mailman had never seen such a cliche package outside of the movies.

Gritting his teeth, he wiped the sweat from his brow and forced a chuckle. Daniel, buddy, you’ve got to relax, he told himself. Time to stop being the laughing stock—you can show them who’ll be going postal next week!

Taking a deep breath, he undid his seatbelt and opened the door, getting out and heading for the door before he could change his mind.

Step, step, step—almost there—step, step—reach out, knock, give the package and go. Easy!

A dog shot forward, pressing its face against the chain-link fence next door and barking with an almost feral exuberance at his approach, its jowls dripping with saliva.

“H’oh shit!” he squealed, flinging the package into the air. With another cry of, “Shit!”, he reached out, running forward to try and catch the fragile box. It spun as it fell, landing on his palm but rolling out and to the side. He threw out his other hand, trying to get a grip on the falling package.

Instead, he smacked it again, launching it towards the fence—and the still-barking dog. For a moment, he almost let it go. After all, was a stupid package (which he suspected was likely full of drugs of some sort, or maybe a bomb) worth getting rabies? Or losing a hand?

But he found himself jumping forward, the answer irrelevant. He had come this far, and he’d be damned if he failed at this point. Especially to a stupid dog. He was no cartoonist’s cliche.

Emboldened, he put an extra oomph to his leap, reaching out with both hands as he saw the brown missile arc up and over, aimed right for the dog’s snappings jaws. His chest hit the fence, stopping and knocking the breath from him. Raising his arms, he aimed, prayed, and brought his hands together.

A moment later, he opened his eyes gingerly. There, between his palms, was the package, safe and sound. In front of him, across the fence, the dog was going crazy. In between loud, annoying barks it snapped and pulled at the chain link. Safe, he breathed in deeply, coughing at the slight ache on his chest.

Hah! Take that, ya damned dog! No stupid mutt is gonna beat me!

“Excuse me.”

Nearly dropping the package yet again, the mailman twisted quickly, surprised at the sudden voice. There, at the apartment doorway, stood a young woman. At least he was pretty sure it was a young woman. The voice was rough and quiet, making it hard to hear let alone recognize the sex behind it.

It was her generally thin body shape that made him guess at her gender, as she was clothed almost entirely head to toe. An over-large brown coat covered most of her body, with plain black boots poking out underneath. Above she had the tall collar pulled close. Combined with the wide-brimmed hat she wore, her face was deeply shadowed. The effect was increased by the darkness of the house’s interior.

“Uh…” he trailed off, realizing he’d not heard her as she’d continued to speak. “Sorry, what?”

She let out an irritated sigh. “I said, ‘What exactly is going on here?’”

Backing away from the fence, the mailman dusted himself off and cleared his throat. “Nothing! Or rather, something. A, a delivery, ma’am.” He held up the package, then gave it a spin when he saw it was upside down. “Package for 1312 Saint’s Whistle. A Mr.…” He looked at the label, adding, “Pierce?”

The figure nodded, replying, “Yes, that’s me—a package?” A gloved hand moved up to curiously rub at an unseen chin. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the mailman said, offering the box.

Gingerly, she reached out and took it, cradling it gently with both hands. He almost laughed when she brought it to her ear and gave it a small shake.

“Eager for Hearth’s Warming, are we, miss?” he joked.

The hat tilted, marking the imagined flat look. “Hilarious.” She turned, starting to close the door.

“Wait! You need to sign!” he called, bringing out the clipboard velcroed to his belt. “Uh...please?”

He stood for a moment, clipboard in hand and offered, feeling awkward. Finally, the door creaked open again.

“Very well,” she replied with an irritated noise. “If I must. Hold this,” she said, thrusting the package back at him.

For a second he juggled the package and the clipboard, transferring the latter into her hands. Quickly, she took the attached pen and dropped it. Grumbling to herself, she leaned down but couldn’t seem to pick up the pen with her thick gloves.

She stomped the ground, growling some before she angrily removed the gloves. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw her delicate and manicured nails, painted a dark purple. Her hand freed, she picked up the pen and, in a series of long and liquid strokes, signed the paper. They repeated the miniature juggle, leaving him with the signed delivery sheet and her with the box.

“Is there anything else?” she asked.

“No, tha—” he replied, but she cut him off with a harsh, “Because I’m extremely busy!”

Blushing, he said, “Uh, that’s all. Appreciate it, ma’am. Thank—” She turned and slammed the door shut as he finished weakly with, “—you…”

Oh well. At least she didn’t draw a knife on me or anything, he thought wearily, trudging back to his car to finish his route. I need to request a different route before I get another ulcer.

Climbing back into the safety of his vehicle, he tossed the clipboard to the passenger seat, forgotten. It landed next to one of the newspapers, which went on to talk about the six traitors to the crown—Twila Shields, Isabelle ‘Dash’ Apple, Jack Apple, Chylene Hutchinson, Diane ‘Pinkie’ Pie, and Rarity Belle. There beside it, plain to see but thankfully missed by the nervous mailman, was the signature, elegantly reading, ‘Rarity Belle’.

Rarity held her back flat against the door, her hand gripping the gun under her coat tightly. Not until she heard the mail truck start and stop five times as it continued its route did she let loose a sigh of relief as she relaxed.

At this rate, she thought to herself, I’m going to develop ulcers or some other horrid thing!

Stripping off the hot—not to mention hideous—coat, she placed the gun on a small table near the door as she took the unexpected package to the living room.

Although calling it a living room was being incredibly generous. It was mostly empty, a mattress and simple pallet on the floor in one corner, a splintered table and matching chair, as well as a threadbare recliner, the only other pieces of furniture in the room. The rest of the apartment was much the same.

For a living space, it was dreadful. But for a hideout? It worked well enough, she supposed. The water worked, and a generator in the basement allowed her to cook. Though the meals were skimpy and simple. Rarity was pretty sure if she never saw another potato in her entire life, it’d be too soon.

Setting the package down as she sat herself, she told herself the real reason she was tired of the apartment was Spike’s absence. The young man had been gone for over a week now, leaving her to stew and nearly drown in paranoia. She tried to distract herself, but without her tailor’s tools, there was only so much that interested her.

The half dozen or so romance novels they’d manage to scrounge sat in a pile, reread at least three times. She’d tried her hand at knitting—surprisingly difficult, considering she had worked with a needle nearly her entire life. And despite having little interest before, she’d been spending more and more time every day on Spike’s computer.

“It’s true,” she said to no one, “I’m so terribly bored!”

Day in and day out, nothing seemed to change. Ever since they split up from the others, it had been Spike doing research as they kept as low a profile as possible. What they had learned from the List, stolen from the detestable nobleman Alaurd Blueblood, had made it imperative they each do something to strike at their enemy. Rarity was tired of hiding, of waiting.

She would never admit it, but at least a small part of her craved action. Sitting around, endlessly planning and contemplating was driving her mad. As a tailor, Rarity respected and understood the necessity for preparation and planning. But, at the same time, her profession also required you to strike while the iron was hot, so to speak. Timid tailors might eke out a living, but they would never grace a magazine cover. Their names would never be synonymous with a nationwide fashion trend. They would never receive custom, once-in-a-lifetime orders from the most famous, the most influential, the most powerful.

No, that took daring and a sense of drama, drastic action and quick risks. To be successful, one had to observe and wait for an opportunity, but even more so be aware of the potential for opportunity. The winners set themselves up accordingly. Professionals boldly placed themselves in line for success rather than rely on fickle chance to find their door.
Not that chances weren’t important, she reminded herself. The list had been their effort to meet success; in doing so, they had pulled chance to their lap. It was beyond frustrating, then, that they had to play it safe. Especially considering the time limit they were up against.

Focusing on the package, she said, “So I wonder exactly what you are—expected success or random luck?” Carefully, she picked it up for a closer examination, turning it this way and that in her hand.

It made no sound—she wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not. Despite its size, it was rather light; she suspected it held something small, but packed tightly. Deciding she was too bored to ignore something new, she shrugged and tore off the addressed paper.

There, in light green ink, was all the proof she needed. “Gems, from Drake,” she read aloud, smiling. It was small and written exactly centered underneath the taped on address. Little chance anyone would find it without damaging the parcel, making her instantly suspicious. Simple, but effective. “So like you, Spike.”

Her worries laid to rest, she began tearing off the plain brown paper. Inside was a simple paper box, taped closed. She hurried to the kitchen and grabbed a knife, slicing it open. When she opened the lid, she gasped, clutching a hand to her breast in surprise.

It was mostly stuffed with soft cotton. Nestled snuggly inside was one of the most gorgeous gemstones Rarity had ever seen. It was a sapphire, cut into the shape of a heart and set on a flawless silver chain. Rarity felt tears at her eyes. She had received a twin, that one a brilliant ruby, from Spike a few years ago. It still remained the most touching and honest gesture of affection anyone had ever done for her.

“And now you’ve done it again, Spike—you darling boy, you,” she whispered, clutching the package to her heart, wishing instead she could hug the man himself. Letting it go, she hurriedly pulled it from the box and began to put it on. Before she finished doing the clasp, a small click of something falling caught her attention. Looking down, she raised an eyebrow in wonder. There on the ground was a small, thin plastic device that must have been underneath the necklace. She recognized it as a compact hard drive; pocket-sized for easy transport between computers wherever you might go.
Quickly, she hurried back to the table, opening the flash drive’s cap. Reaching beside her, she moved the laptop and, after a few moments, found where it went and plugged it in.

Taking the mouse in hand, she clicked and double clicked until she found the drive’s icon. She opened it and found a single video file. Anticipation coursed through her body, making her fingers tingle. She hovered over it with her cursor, then took a breath, clicking it.

After only a few seconds of loading, Spike appeared, leaning forward onto a desk in a well-worn apartment.

He stared at the camera, his short stature on the desk nearly swallowing him whole. With a small smile, he started. “Hi there, Rarity. I hope you’re doing well at the hideout.” Spike frowned, bridging his fingers. “I-I know it’s not exactly ideal—you deserve something much better than that—and I’d love to give it to you, but…” He sighed, clasping his hands tighter and shaking his head. “A larger place would just attract attention. Better a rough neighborhood than the entire brunt of the army finding you.” He leaned down, reaching into a drawer in the desk and producing a silver necklace with a blue, heart-shaped gem at the end. “Guess when you get this message you’ll have the necklace too.” He gave a boyish blush, glancing away from the camera. “Hope you like it—I, uh, thought it might go good with the fire ruby I gave you when I was a kid. Jeweler I talked to said it was like, like a sister piece to it. Red is supposed to offer good health and fortune. Blue is for wisdom and courage.”

Giving a dismissive wave of his hand, he returned the necklace and continued. “But that’s enough of that. Sorry. I’ll, uh, get to the point now.” Spike stood, walking beside the desk and pulling down a rolled up map that showcased the nation of Torani. He pointed up, standing on his toes. With a heavy sigh, he bent down offscreen, bringing up a pointer.
Rarity hid a laugh behind her hand. “Oh, you’re just too cute, Spike,” she said aloud, recalling the many times he had been bothered by his short stature.

Turning back to the video, she saw Spike tap at one of northernmost towns on the map. “I have a mission for you,” he addressed, turning and facing the camera. “You’re to travel by a train leaving at midnight tonight en route to the town of Brunswick. When you arrive there, I’ll meet up with you and explain the situation with a bit more detail. I’d tell you more now, but if this package were to be intercepted… well, the less said about that the better. All you really need to know is that we’re meeting with a contact of mine who says he could possibly have a weapon that could help our cause tremendously. It should be an easy job—I’ve already done a bit of looking around, and everywhere we stop seems safe.” Spike tapped the pointer into his palm. “Granted, bring the cache. Better safe than sorry, right?.” He shook his head, wanting to say something, but held his tongue.

“That’s about all that needs saying for now. Though you’re probably wondering why I’m not just doing this myself.” Rarity nodded—she had wondered. Spike went on. “The truth is, while this is important, I…” He swallowed. “I want to take you somewhere, Rarity. It’s nice country, and, despite us having a job there, maybe we can actually have a breather. M-maybe do something together. As a… you know...” Spike shuffled a bit on his feet, then picked up a small remote off of the desk. “To be safe, this video will delete itself about three hours after you view it. So there’s that. I, uh, hope to see you soon.” With a press of a button, the footage terminated.

With a snap, Rarity shut the laptop eagerly. Finally! she thought, her fingers tracing the curves of the sapphire around her neck. A gift and a date!

Excitement made her heart flutter as she began packing up the few essentials; she didn’t want to waste any time. Checking the time, she figured there was just enough time to clean up, pack up, and make her way to the station without being seen.

“First things first,” she told herself. “The cache.” An irritated sigh escaped her lips. “Does he really want the whole thing?” Heading downstairs to the cramped little basement, she thought, It’s good to be prepared, but it’s so heavy!

Approaching the far wall, she felt against the rough wooden wall until she found the gap that marked the removable panel. Sliding it aside, she grabbed the massive trunk and began hauling it upstairs.

Cache, check. Laptop, check. Spare clothes, the travel toiletries, the spare cash… Am I forgetting anything?

Breathing hard, trying to ignore the feeling of sweat on her brow, Rarity gave one last heave and slung the trunk out of the stairwell. She looked around, somewhat wistfully. It was a dreary, dreadful place… but it had been safe, at least for a time. When she and Spike had found it, they had simply relaxed for several days, staying up too late and reliving the crazy stories that had happened in Mansfield with the others. But they had also wondered and worried about the others and their own missions.

Nodding resolutely, she decided to grab a quick shower before taking a taxi to the station. If she wanted to see the others again, this was the first step. Spike had supplied the opportunity, now they had to place themselves before it.

Besides, she told herself, I can’t wait to see what he has planned for our first date!

Stepping off the train, Rarity shivered and regretted leaving her heavy coat packed. It hadn’t been a long trip—no more than a couple hours or so—but it had been more than enough to drop temperatures well below comfortable. Winter had clearly come to Brunswick and didn’t plan on leaving for some time.

Hefting both the heavy trunk and her tightly-packed bag (she still found it hard to travel with just the one), she followed a small crowd of people down the platform to the station proper. Spike had said they would meet up in the small town, but she had forgotten if he’d said anything more detailed. Between the weight she carried and the cold, however, her hands were beginning to go numb. If Spike was anywhere, she decided, it’d likely be within the station itself.

Walking faster, she headed for the small building, the glow of its lighted windows promising an escape from the chill and the warmth. The station itself was small. Likely even smaller than the one at Mansfield, which surprised her. But to her knowledge, Brunswick wasn’t known for much beyond being a stop between Torani proper and its northern ally-dash-territory, the Crystal Territories. Putting her curiosity on hold, she made a beeline for the automatic double-doors, passing through them quickly into blessed and comfortable heat.

Setting down the bags, she looked around. Apparently she hadn’t been the only one with the idea of using the station to get out of the weather. There were a surprising number of people, despite the late hour. Most were standing or sitting against the wall or on the floor, the handful of simple benches beyond full. Some were even asleep on their luggage. The only word Rarity could find to describe it was ‘quaint’.

It wasn’t long before she saw him, pushing through the crowd of people and pausing, standing on his toes to stare over them on occasion. He finally spotted her; his face erupted into a smile as he pushed through the sea of people with renewed fervor. He finally broke free and stumbled forward, standing in front of her.

“Glad you made it,” Spike quietly said, looking up into her face. His eyes briefly glanced down; he noticed the pendent she wore. “How do you like it?”

Spreading her arms wide, she leaned down and pulled Spike into a tight hug. “It’s beyond lovely, Spike. As good as the last and better.”

He blushed once more, bringing his arms up and holding her for a moment. “I like blue on you. I, uh, like everything on you, but blue especially.” He smiled, his eyes almost squinted shut from how wide his grin was. “Matches your eyes.”

She leaned back, but kept her arms around him. Smiling, she replied, “You really are the sweetest thing, darling.” Finally letting him go, she gestured around. “Anyways--I’m here! Have you been waiting long?”

“Just about a half-hour or so. I was keeping an eye on the package I sent and had a feeling you’d open it almost as soon as you got it.” He shrugged. “Then I just kinda looked at the train schedule. Easy stuff.” Spike laughed. “I know it’s only been about a week, but it is really nice seeing you again. Has anything happened while I was away?”

She shook her head. “Nothing at all, thankfully. The news reports are still mostly repeats, but are starting to lose some of their urgency.”

He broke their embrace, but still clasped her hand tightly in his own. “Good, good. The one plus about the news: propaganda piece to the Tyrant or not, people lose interest. Maybe in a couple months they’ll be back to talking about reality TV or the next superhero film in theater, or, or a videogame—something.” He glanced over at her bags and grabbed one in his free hand. He lifted it with a heavy groan, his arm visibly shaking under its weight.

“Y-you’re prepared,” he gasped out, partially dragging the bag, partially hoisting it. “Let me t-take this to the car… we can talk more on the drive.”

Rarity gave a wicked grin as she hefted her other luggage. “Oh yes—I’ve had half a day and a boring train ride to hang on your mysteriousness. I’m just dying to know we’re up against. Don’t hold back a thing!”

“M-might not be up against anything really. Sweet Elondrie,” he groaned, swinging the bag and carrying it in both hands. “And I’m sorry about the whole ‘cloak and dagger’ act—I just don’t want anything to happen. I gotta be careful—I can’t get you hurt.”

“Spike,” Rarity said evenly as they headed for the door, “we talked about this, remember? I don’t want to see you hurt, or any of the others, either. But that can’t hold us back. Too much counts on us to let our personal lives interfere. We have to remember the big picture.” She stopped in her tracks, adding, “Oh listen to me! I’m sounding a fair bit like Dash, aren’t I?”

“You’ve kept your language too clean to be like Dash,” he weakly joked, taking another breath of air. “Man, this thing…” He took it down a small flight of stairs, then looked down at the bag. “But, I know you’re right. We can’t let personal feelings dictate missions. It’s just that…” He gently put it down and shrugged. “It’s kind of a man thing, I guess. I guess I-I’m not that much of one—I don’t look the part, I don’t feel the part most days, and I sure can’t play the part sometimes—even this bag is kicking my ass,” the boy grumbled. “But…” He rubbed the back of his neck at stared over at the beauty beside him. “Does it make sense when I say I want to, uh, provide for you, Rarity? I want to take care of you as best I can, and make your life as easy as I can.”

Rubbing her arms vigorously, Rarity replied, ‘S-sure it d-d-does, Spike. But c-can we talk ab-bout this in the c-c-car? I’m f-freezing.”

“Oh!” He blinked. “R-right. Sorry.”

They walked for a few minutes, until they came to a well-made red sports car. Spike reached into his pocket and pressed a button; they both heard the ‘click’ of the doors unlocking.

“Is that one of, of D-Dash’s?” Rarity asked, heading for the passenger door.

“Yep,” he agreed. “I told her I needed a car, and considering I’m about the only one in the group that’s able to roam free, she was happy to lend it out.” He gave a small tilt of his head as he tossed one of Rarity’s bags in the backseat and hopped behind the driver’s wheel. “Well… as happy as Dash can get lending her stuff out, anyway.”

Rarity opened the door and hefted the trunk up and in. “Stupid… two-doors… Oof!” With a grunt of effort, she managed to throw the heavy trunk up and over the lowered seat into the back. “I’m impressed, Spike. Getting that stubborn mule of a woman to entrust one of her precious cars, even considering the circumstances.” She climbed in and closed the door, buckling her seatbelt, waiting for Spike to turn on the heat.

He put the key in the ignition and twisted it forward, bringing a blast of lukewarm air into the car, alongside the radio coming alive, playing a slow, soulful blues song over the car’s speakers.

“Should get warm in just a minute—just got to give the engine a second to get cranking.” He shifted to reverse and pulled out of the parking lot. After a moment of waiting for traffic, he turned left, finally hitting the road. “Have you had a chance to listen to this song yet?” Spike asked, tilting his head towards the radio. “I mean, I knew you liked the band, but this is some of their newer stuff.”
“I hadn’t, no. It’s very nice,” she replied, looking at him from the corner of her eye.

“When we get everything taken care of, that’s one of the first things I want to do, take you to one of their performances.” He paused at a stop sign, sparing a glance either way at the four-way intersection. On seeing no traffic, he pressed forward, going through the silent, sleepy town.

“I’d like that, Spike,” Rarity said. Her tone was even, yet… expectant. She continued to enjoy the warming car as Spike drove. The little town reminded her of Mansfield, though a little more modern in its construction. But she stayed silent, waiting for Spike to speak.

“Sorry,” he apologized after another moment, not glancing away from the road. “I guess I was just trying to be, uh, normal for a bit. A normal couple, talking about normal things. Not talking about jobs, and, and missions, and that sort of stuff.” He sighed, shaking his head. “But you need to know about what’s going down, so…” He tilted his head toward the glove box. “Open that up, if you wouldn't mind.”

She reached forward, but hesitated. Moving her hand to rest on his, she said, gently, “I understand, Spike. And we’ll do plenty of that, I promise.” Her tone took on a more urgent edge. “But I’m just so curious! I feel like Stephanie—childishly at the edge of my seat, wanting so desperately to know…!” Giving his hand a good squeeze, she went back to open the glove box eagerly.

Inside was a small manila folder. She quickly opened it up, revealing a photograph of a frail looking older man in a full priest garb. He clutched a symbol of Elondrie tightly in his hand, with the other clutching a dog-eared book.

“That should be an image of our contact,” Spike explained. “One Father McCollins. He got in touch with one of my proxies and had some fairly substantial claims. Namely that one of the apprentices under his wing had managed to acquire a blueprint for a weapon that could change the tide of battle for us. He didn’t give out specifics over the net—frankly I couldn’t blame him. Nobody’s getting through my station, but someone could easily from his.” He rubbed at his lips, waiting until Rarity flipped to the next picture, which showcased a large stone building set nearby a steep mountain. “Anyway. We’re meeting him tomorrow morning at an old monastery, alongside a few of his apprentices. Like I mentioned, I think we’re in the clear here, but I still want you along as… uh… insurance.”

“Of course. I’ve got your back, Spike.” She flipped to the last piece in the folder. Rather than a photograph, it was a receipt to a location called ‘White Heaven Lodges.’ Curious, she raised the slip and asked, “What’s this?”

“We’re renting a room tonight. While we’re there, we’re the Plisskins. A happy, normal family on a vacation away from the kids and my stock market trade.”

Blinking slowly, Rarity carefully returned the pictures and receipt to the envelope. Only when it was securely back in the glovebox, she cleared her throat lightly, saying, “Spike? A question.”

“What?” He paused at another four-way stop, tapping the wheel as a truck with a plow attached to its front made a wide turn left.

“Well… of course, I know how mature and sophisticated you are, darling.” She hesitated, not wanting to crush the young man’s good mood. Still, she had to bring up the point. “But quite frankly, Spike, for anyone else? And it’s not just you, of course. That we’re a married couple with… with… k-kids is a bit of a, well, a stretch, don’t you think?”

He paused mid tap. After a beat, he sighed. “Guess I don’t look like the type, huh?” With a shake of his head, he gestured behind them. “I have a makeup kit in the back. I know you’re good enough to make me look the part. You could add some crow’s eyes to yourself as well, if you need to.” He then added morosely under his breath. “My height we can chalk up to a glandular condition, or something, if anyone asks… Maybe that’s why I’m so short regardless. Geez.”

Giving him a warm smile, Rarity said, “You’re tall enough, Spike. And don’t let anyone make you think different! Besides, those of… slighter statures have it much easier, really.”

“How so? Only thing I can think of is that I’m travel sized.”

The tailor giggled. “Oh, really, Spike. There’s so much more! Why, it’s easier for you to find clothes that fit properly, not to mention much cheaper.” She made a grimace. “I’m more than welcome to do it, of course, but every time I make a dress for Jack, well, the material costs alone are outrageous! Plus all the work to make it fit her proportions... And so what if you can’t reach the top shelf? It’s easier for you to be more comfortable in an average-sized world. Nothing really needs to be made especially for you.” Tilting her head, she added, curiously. “You know, now that I think of it, all those incredibly tall male characters in my books never seem to have the sort of problems I’ve heard from Jack and her brother.”

“Finding fitting clothes seems like small change problems when you can have any woman you want, any time you want.” He shrugged. “That, and they’re usually shirtless anyway. At least going by the book covers. N-Not like I’ve read them. Much.”

Trying to hide her smile, Rarity feigned shock, asking, “Why, Spike—you’re not jealous are you?”

“Of course not,” he quickly replied, driving to the outskirts of town. “Why would I be jealous of men like that? Just because they can run, fight, drive, swim, shoot and talk better than me is no…” Spike sighed. “Ok. A bit,” he admitted. “But just a bit.” He gave a sly look her way. “Besides, I’m sure you’re jealous of the women in those, anyway.”

This time Rarity not only smiled but allowed a laugh. “Jealous? Of what? Their perfect lives, complete with stability and flat interests, troubled only enough to let a perfect specimen of a man sweep them off their feet and into their beds? Or kitchen counter. Or hidden forest. Or beach or wherever!” She scoffed. “No effort, no depth, no… life. Warms the blood, sure, and there’s always an excellent level of intricate drama that you’d find nowhere else.” Sighing, she added, “But am I jealous of women who exist to simply accentuate the perfect bronzed skin and rippling muscles of a six-foot-six warrior-turned-gentleman, to provide company on cold nights for naked warmth and sweaty sheets? I think not.”

She leveled a firm stare at Spike, saying, “And neither should you, young man. You’re capable beyond those brutes, in your own way.”

After a moment to let that sink in, he nodded, smiling towards her. “Thanks for the pep talk. Don’t tell her I said this, but there are times when you’re tons better at this stuff than Twila.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said, “but I owed you a couple from the auction. Glad to see I’m not completely useless after all.” Despite her words, though, Rarity was smiling. Her thoughts reflected the unsaid words, You helped me see what I can offer—I can show you the same, Spike.

“Useless?” Spike repeated. “If you’re useless, than I’m even worse. You’re about as perfect as a woman can be, Rarity.”

“At least you think so, Spike, dear. Now,” she said, clapping her hands together, “we’re going to meet this priest at an out of the way monastery, in hopes they’ll give us information on a secret weapon? That does sound simple enough. I suppose we’ll have to really work at making this trip worthwhile with… other activities, yes?”

“There’s a reason I told him to wait until morning,” Spike agreed. “Have you ever been skiing?”

Excitedly, Rarity replied, “I’ve always wanted to try it! I can’t wait, Spike. It’s always seemed so elegant, for a sporty activity.”

“And then we can treat ourselves to a fireplace in the evening,” he said, grinning. “There’s one in every room. Might leave it on all night—I bet it’ll make the couch really comfy.”

“Oh, yes. No doubts,” Rarity replied, envisioning the day ahead of them. The night that would close it. She couldn’t recall doing anything like this in her entire life. It almost seemed like a dream. But that brought on an uncomfortable thought. “Spike, what… what do you think the others might be doing right now?” she asked slowly.

He glanced up to the roof of the car in thought as they slowly drove uphill. “Well… I haven’t heard from Pinkie or Chylene, so I’m going to presume they’re still hiding and making plans, otherwise I’m sure they would have tried to contact me. Jack…” He seemed to debate on speaking, then pressed forward. “Dash told me she’s not been eating much. Been having pretty bad nightmares too. As for Twila…” He turned a corner as they continued to advance uphill. “I’ve been keeping tabs as best I can on her. She’s been talking to that man she met at Blueblood’s party—trying to get some rapport with the noble crowd. You know what word of mouth can do.”

“Nothing too dangerous, at least yet,” Rarity said, thankful. “Even still, it almost feels like we’re taking a holiday, doesn’t it?”

“In a way,” Spike admitted. “But… I’m honestly not too ashamed about it, Rarity. You shouldn’t be either. We need a break—Elondrie knows if I get wound up much more I’m going to start making mistakes. And with everyone’s lives on the line? I can’t do that.” He weakly smiled. “So just tell yourself you’re tagging along on my little vacation, if it makes you feel better.”

Making a mild noise of agreement, she turned to look out the window at the landscape around them. For the last hour or so they had steadily been climbing up, taking a long, winding road straight out of a classic movie. There were few other cars which, combined with the fairly uniform surroundings, made them seem like the last people on the planet.

Approaching yet another curve, Rarity could see far and low in a rare break of the almost constant snowfall. A thick, old growth forest of evergreens, needles heavy with snow and ice, stretched as far as she could see. Less a movie, she told herself, than a painting. But soon the plain of white was obscured once more by thick flakes of snow, blowing in the winds of the high hills.

She wasn’t entirely upset at the change. Beautiful though the view was, she was also painfully aware of the somewhat rusty guardrail being the only thing standing between them and an almost sheer drop to rocky oblivion. Thankfully, Spike was an excellent driver and they had been in no hurry. Dramatic flashes of a dangerous car chase came to mind, amusing her at their obvious silliness.

“How much longer, do you think?” she asked.

“Pretty close now, actually,” he replied, pointing a finger at a small mountain in the distance, across the chasm and the winding and curving road that ran alongside it. “Ten, fifteen minutes, tops. So just relax, I’ll get you there.”

“I know you will. I’ve simply never been to a place like this. I mean, Orleith castle is somewhat like this, I suppose, but still different. You forget how high up it is, where as here…” She took a long look at the path ahead of them. “Here, it never quite leaves you.”

“I know what you mean,” he agreed, glancing out his side window at the world. “It’s pretty neat, really. I kinda like it, the cold and the view.”

Rarity felt a shiver pass over her spine. “Speaking of, could you turn up the heat, Spike? It’s getting colder even more quickly now,” she said, rubbing her arms vigorously despite the thick coat she wore. Looking again at the falling snow and biting winds just a window away, she added, “Maybe we should check the forecast. I do hope we’re not in for even colder weather.”

“I have a feeling we’re not going to be skiing long at this rate,” he replied, turning the heater up even higher to fight against the elements.