"I'm sorry," Talib said again, staring at the floor long after the umber unicorn had retreated in indignant shock. That was one customer very unlikely to return.

"Don't worry about it, colt. I've seen off my fair share of jerks over the years," said Sim, uncharacteristically sympathetic as he cast a stern gaze over the shocked market-goers and made them look bashfully away. "Why don't you take a break? Grab some lunch and cool off." Talib nodded, vague and lost. Soon, however, the familiar abrasive tone returned to Sim's voice, and got the shocked young colt moving. "But don't be too long or I'll dock your pay," said Sim, "I'm getting hungry, too."

Talib nodded, unable to reply. A part of him - the rational, non-furious, non-ashamed part - remembered he'd promised to bring the other carving, the one he hadn't just had a shouting match about, to Moondancer. He hastily grabbed it from its not-for-sale hiding-place under the counter and ran off without looking at Sim.

Ponies who'd seen the outburst gave him wide berth, but others expected him to navigate like somepony who was paying attention. Occasionally Talib gently ricocheted off one as he stumbled half-blindly through the crowds, the event still on obsessive loop in his mind's recriminatory theatre. His memories - like most of his short-term memory since the concussion - were vague, the emotion far better preserved than the actions. He recalled yelling, a face very close to his own, a thumping hoof dinting blameless timber. The anger had receded, and it was with difficulty that Talib had forced himself to accept it had in fact been his yelling, his hoof.

It wasn't that Talib didn't get angry. But his schoolyard days had trained him to internalize it. Outnumbered and outgunned, the spindly, uncoordinated foal had developed safe, avoidant habits. Sullen was safer than shouting; diplomacy less painful than direct response. Don't confront - choke it down so they can't even see, so they never suspect the taut ropes of anger twisting in your gut. So he'd added a mask to his wardrobe and for years he'd smiled a reasonable, inoffensive smile. I'm not offended, said the mask, I know you're a decent sort.

See? said the smile. We actually agree on lots of things. We might even be friends. There's no need for hostility. It had worked surprisingly well. Talib himself had grown to believe the mask, most of the time.

But all that had melted away, just now. Perhaps it was the fatigue, or perhaps these were the 'mood alterations' the nurse had warned about. But for the first time in years Talib had got properly, legitimately angry, and the mask had been blown clean off. Anger had been given form and voice. Talib had been ignoring warning signs all day - he'd been slow, miscounting change, and getting increasingly flustered and irritated. Celestia only knew how long this wretched concussion would take to heal. Admittedly, the customer had been an obnoxious bully, haggling and harping about the falling price of timber, but that was no excuse for Talib's eruption, and he felt childish and ashamed.

Except, deep down and barely acknowledged, for the part that didn't.

He slowly came back to reality, looking around at the mostly-smiling ponies going about their market business. What kind of masks did they use? When a mask became natural, instinctive, did that constitute a new, but genuine, face? Or was the old, true self still underneath, struggling for breath?

It was a sharp contrast with the relatively calm, solitary day he'd had yesterday. After the lunchtime conversation with his mother, Talib had waited until the other ponies were safely back out in the fields before sneaking downstairs again, intent on setting up his analysis equipment for the coming week. On the way through the kitchen, however, he had paused, helplessly drawn to the myriad background processes of pickling, fermenting, brining, drying, steeping and so forth which kept the farmhouse kitchen supplied with a variety of food year-round. He had stood on the cool flagstones, gently sniffing the mild indoor air which was fragrant with many aromas, mild or sharp. Talib had lifted the lids off a few large glazed pots, and from one he had fished out a crunchy pickled cucumber. He had munched on the tart snack with satisfaction as he felt himself drawn firmly towards the cellar.

Down here, under the reliably cool earth, was the real heart of his father's preserving empire, full of carefully-labelled pots of various ages. In the delicate early weeks of fermentation, Melaco said, romantically, a young pickle received instruction from the more mature brines. The solid timber beams and packed-earth walls also enclosed dozens of barrels of rum, a dignified end for the crude molasses which remained after fine sugars were boiled off. Unlike most distillers, Talib's father did not bother to blend vintages together for year-on-year consistency, but instead revelled in the subtle variations of each season's produce. Talib had removed the cork from one of the small barrels and dipped the special long-handled ladle. He took a small sip, sweet warmth and spice flooding his mouth, and sighed with satisfaction. He could spend hours wandering the house and workshops, drawing much-needed calm and strength from all these little things that made a home. But it was time to begin work - Melaco and Ghaliya would not be out in the fields forever.

The rum shed was dusty and quiet between seasons, but soon they would process the last of this harvest's cane juice and the residual molasses would be collected, ready for fermentation. Talib could see the process in his mind's eye; first, a dynamic starter culture would be brewed from dried fermentation foam - or rhumbullion - since directly tossing in the dry culture risked over-dilution in the large vessel and stalling the ferment. Melaco and Bianca, who had taken a liking to the work and was far better at it than Talib, would scale up the starter culture and add it to the diluted molasses, which would have already begun a spontaneous fermentation in parallel. On its own this natural, wild fermentation was slow, fickle, and produced unpleasant rum: dry as acid and bitter as wild acorns. In combination, however, the complementary characteristics of the two fermentation styles were unsurpassed.

The inside of the shed looked like it was in perpetual readiness for Nightmare Night: every corner was choked with cobwebs and populated with a multitude of spiders, some commonplace, others never seen anywhere else - migrants from the Everfree Forest, perhaps. Ponyville farmers, proud of their neat habits, always found this shed strange and uncomfortable but listened with interest when Melaco explained the tradition brought from the old country. Far from indicating laziness, the spiders were encouraged quite deliberately. The sugars and alcohols of open-fermenting molasses were attractive to all manner of pestilential creatures - not least parasprites - that could easily spoil a fledgling ferment. The spiders stood sentinel at every entrance and in every hiding place, so the fermentation could be open to the unique air of Ponyville and the Everfree Forest which imparted its own characteristics to the rum.

But Talib was not here for rum. Into his pannier went some scales, jars, a hydrometer and other miscellanea. They would not be missed, since these days Melaco relied on his own five senses. On the way out, Talib had patted the old copper still fondly. In a few weeks it would be hard at work, the temperature carefully supervised day and night to ensure that unpleasant or poisonous phases, produced during fermentation, were fractioned off from the rum proper.

The main workshop furnished a few more tools - calipers, rulers and such - and Talib had then moved on to his ultimate destination. The threshing-room hadn't been used since the farm's previous owners had abandoned their unsuccessful attempt at grain farming. Its elevated floorboards and well-ventilated space would be perfect for drying his samples. Once the floor and benches were dusted out it would provide a secluded space for him to conduct the tedious, pedantic measurements of his experimental crops. Talib had set to work, intending to make full use of this next week of "recovery".

He came back to the present reluctantly. Somehow, his hooves had taken Talib to the centre of the market, right across from the Charms and Cures stall. He stood unresolved, several customers milling around the counter and blocking his view of Moondancer and Remedy. Of course, that meant they could not see him either, and Talib wondered if it would be possible to surreptitiously leave the carving and retreat. But lunch beckoned, and the mild crush of customers thinned even as he watched, leaving a clear view of rude planks with a roughly-hewn swirling motif. On these sat a jumble of glass and ceramic, which doubtless held Remedy's various tinctures. Surprisingly organized by contrast, several velvet-upholstered busts supported Moondancer's shining pendants. The whole stall was a-glitter with crisp noon sunlight, melted or crystallized by solid and liquid as they refracted and reflected.

Moondancer spotted him through the break in the crowd and gestured so wildly that several ponies turned to look in Talib's direction. There was no chance of being surreptitious now, so Talib walked over, a delicately floral, herbal scent gathering strength as he did so. Moondancer lifted a hinged trapdoor in the counter and bounded over, giving him a brief, intense hug to which he barely had time to respond before it was over. Remedy was chatting with a customer and merely nodded in recognition.

"Well," said Moondancer, "it's my favourite removalist! If you're looking for more furniture to move, you can always help us pack up the stall at the end of the day." Talib was about to respond when she noticed the flat dressing on his forehead. "Ohmygosh," she exclaimed, "what happened there?"

"Hi, Moondancer," said Talib, not biting. "Just a falling branch. I'm ok, hazard of the job. How's it going?"

"Oh, you know," replied the dove-grey unicorn, "market day... always tiring." She pursed her lips. "We had a particularly unpleasant unicorn through here just a moment ago. Seemed annoyed about something." Before Talib could decide whether he even wanted to know, she noticed the calico-wrapped package protruding from his pannier. "Ooooh," she squealed, "is that it?"

Talib nodded and glanced at Remedy, still talking with the customer.

"Well, go on!" blurted Moondancer, impulsively, "hand it over!"

Talib wanted to. He really did. But he seemed constitutionally incapable of interrupting a conversation, and just ended up standing there looking awkwardly at Remedy, who didn't notice, while her customer cast uncertain, sidelong glances at the interloper, and then pretended she hadn't. Unsurprisingly, Moondancer had no such reserve, and soon tired of waiting.

"Hey, Remedy!" she shouted gleefully, "look what Talib brought!"

Remedy's customer, a homely-looking bespectacled pegasus, smiled with apparent familiarity at Moondancer's tactless exuberance. Talib was beginning to recognize that kind of regular customer that straddled the boundary of commerce and friendship, and relaxed a little.

"What have you got there, dearie?" asked the pegasus. Only then did Remedy permit her focus to shift towards him. Talib found himself wondering whether the customer's question was deliberately asked as a kind of 'permission' for Remedy to break off their conversation. Not for the first time, he noted the strange and complex interplay of carefully-masked consideration and insight that constituted politeness, and despaired of ever achieving the kind of intuitive mastery that people like his mother exhibited. He sighed inwardly and pulled the cloth-wrapped carving from his pannier.

"Just a little gift for Remedy," he said, bashfully holding it out for her, "or if she prefers, her cousin - I'm told she likes this kind of thing."

Remedy looked at him blankly, then at Moondancer, and took the cloth-swaddled item in a careful hoof. Unwrapping it with her teeth, she nearly dropped it in surprise when the wooden form began to emerge. She looked at him mouth agape, startled.

"But…" she stammered, "I didn't-"

Moondancer was unable to restrain her laughter, and it bubbled out irrepressibly. Remedy looked at her suspiciously. "Talib," she said, kindly, "however Moondancer... cajoled you into this, it's not-"

"No, no, no!" Talib interrupted, "it's just… repaying a favour, kind of. I wanted you to have this, so maybe you could give it to your cousin if you like, since you mentioned she seems to like them so much."

Remedy fell silent, and slowly finished unwrapping the object, thinking. It was eventually revealed to be a wide, rather shallow fruit bowl of dark walnut, into which Talib had painstakingly cut little ellipsoid honeycombings. It had, if he was honest, taken far more time than he really could spare, but once the idea had gripped him it had demanded to be realized. The three other ponies caught their breaths, and even Moondancer was silent for a long moment.

"I can see why June talks about these so much," said Remedy, presumably referring to her cousin. She looked at Talib earnestly. "She'll be ecstatic. Are you sure you want to just give it away for nothing?"

Talib glanced at Moondancer's beaming face. Not for nothing, exactly. He nodded firmly, smiling. Remedy turned the bowl over in her hooves, inspecting it.

"Well," he said quietly, seeing an opportunity to get away, "I better get back to work, or Old Sim will tan my hide. You know how he can be."

Moondancer rolled her eyes and smiled, then gave him a convincing narrow-eyed glare, screwing up her face and conjuring wrinkles out of thin air. "What do yer think yer doin' thar, colt?" she snarled, convincingly. "Ah've bin waitin' so long ah've grown a second beard, yer lazy varmint!" It was a surprisingly good impression, but as the others laughed, Talib merely smiled wanly.

"Not so fast," said Remedy, sternly, "I absolutely cannot allow you to go away empty-hooved."

Talib was steered towards her section of the Charms and Cures stall and virtually forced to choose something, with enthusiastic recommendations from her pegasus customer, who Talib learned was called Aura, and who had apparently been buying Remedy's teas and tinctures for years. Talib eventually chose an unusual smoked chamomile which, he was assured, would help him with his concussion-related sleep problems, although he chose not to keep the severity of his injury to himself. Moondancer rolled her eyes, a gesture which, Talib had begun to notice, was nearly as habitual as breathing for her. She threw a conspiratorial hoof over his shoulders.

"Aches? Pains?" she intoned grandly, sweeping a hoof across the horizon, "Remedy's miracle potions will cure what ails you! Thinning hair? Flaky skin? At Charms and Cures, we can set you to rights! Unlike competitors' tonics, ours contain only trace amounts of snake oil!"

Remedy frowned at her sarcastic friend, but a smile was visible under the furrows. Aura was openly chuckling, and Moondancer's eyes sparkled with mirth. She looked at Talib, who'd managed a half-hearted smile, and her own faded slightly. Her gaze crawled sharply over his face, searching, and flicked up to the dressing on his forehead. She turned to her friend.

"Hey, Remedy," she said, "could you watch my stuff for a minute? Talib and I are going for hot chocolate."

"We are?" said Talib. "Actually, I probably better get back-"

"Oh," said Moondancer with disappointment, "I was hoping you could help me carry a bunch back here for the Friends for Profit. They're swinging by later and my magic's never been that great for levitating stuff." She brightened. "Are you hanging out with us this evening?"

"Ah, unfortunately not," replied Talib, causing Moondancer's face to fall further, "I have a family thing."

"Oh," she said again, colourlessly.

Looking at her, Talib couldn't bear it. "Okay," he said, "let's go."

Making their way through the chilly autumn drizzle which constrained Ponyville's usually bustling crowds, Talib and Moondancer - mainly Moondancer - chatted breezily about work and the inclement weather. The cobblestones glistened and little rivulets flowed gently between the stones, accumulating into larger streams and finally emptying with a steady gurgle into Ponyville River, clearly audible from the town square even over the sound of bustling hooves and conversation. The hot chocolate stall was run by Featherweight's family, and mother, father and son were all on hoof and doing brisk trade in the cool conditions. Moondancer suggested, to reduce their load, that they drink theirs before ordering the rest and Talib, mindful of the time, distractedly agreed. Moondancer led him to a secluded spot under the awning of one of the distinctive terraced buildings bordering the square, and dragged together a couple of small barrels for them to sit on with the kind of self-possession Talib could never have managed while ponyhandling somepony else's property. They sat in silence for a while, watching the rain-blurred ponies hurrying to and fro. Talib and Moondancer both seemed to relish their rain-soaked coats, but it seemed not to be a common preference.

"So," said Moondancer suddenly, "what's up?"

"Not much," said Talib warily, studiously sipping his hot chocolate to avoid her searching eyes. The steaming, sweet drink nearly burned his tongue, but did little to warm his spirits.

"I might not be as smart as you, Talib," she replied, "but I know ponies. Something's wrong. You've barely cracked a smile today. What's eating you?"

Talib looked at her suspiciously. "Are we really getting hot chocolate for the others?" he asked.

"Don't change the subject," she said, her mercurial, lavender eyes surprisingly stern. Talib looked away and down, finding his own gaze drawn to the jade pendant still hanging from his neck. A sudden thought stuck him.

That's right. Just when he'd given up, when it had all been hopeless... they'd stopped.

Why?

He sighed. I may owe her my life. She at least deserves to know.

"Can you keep a secret?" he asked, seriously.

Moondancer's eyes widened. "Usually," she said, half-smiling as usual.

Talib scrutinized Moondancer's impish visage, and made a decision. He took a deep breath and told her, as far as he could remember, about the true cause of his foggy, irritable state of mind. Moondancer's expression grew more and more horrified.

"But… but why would they stop?" she asked in hushed tones. Around them, the previously gentle rain intensified.

"I honestly have no idea," said Talib. "I thought maybe it was because of this," he said, holding up with a forehoof the jade amulet Moondancer had given him. "You said it was for protection - that's why I felt I owed you an explanation."

Moondancer shook her head. "No. No, it couldn't be that," she said, firmly. "Look, my charms, my magic… they've never been that strong, you know? Sometimes I wonder whether my magic works at all, or whether I'm just…" she trailed off and a pained look, a look Talib hadn't seen on her before, skittered across her face, as she looked at her moon-and-stars cutie mark with frustration. Before he could ask, Moondancer took a breath and continued. "What I'm trying to explain is that, if they work at all, then they're right on the edge of uselessness. I don't know much about timberwolves - I hate the Everfree Forest - but there's no way that amulet stopped them."

Talib sagged slightly. Another explanation discredited, he thought, staring morosely at the downpour, another mystery. When am I going to start getting some answers?

Moondancer had looked away from her cutie mark and was now staring thoughtfully at Talib's own, the Ouroboros. "What about that?" she asked, finally, pointing a hoof. "You're pretty sure it has something to do with the Forest, right?"

Talib cocked his head, considering. "I never thought about that," he said, "but it doesn't feel right. They were pretty resolute in attacking me at first. I don’t recall doing anything that felt like a special talent…" he smirked, "unless falling on my rear counts." He raised a wry eyebrow at Moondancer for emphasis, taking another careful sip of his hot chocolate. It was no longer near-boiling, and now delicious.

"Ah-hah!" exclaimed Moondancer, suddenly, "at last, a joke!" Talib looked at her stupidly, as his friend placed hooves triumphantly on hips. "Not a very good one, I'll grant you," she continued, "but it's better than the mopey face you had on before. My work here is done. You may go." She waved airily at the horizon.

Talib actually laughed, then, and they stood to go. Nothing was resolved, but somehow everything felt more possible. Just before they parted ways, however, he suddenly realized something, and turned to Moondancer. "Sorry," he said, slightly shamefaced, "I didn't even ask. How are you doing?"

"Oh," she replied, easily, "today was your turn. Besides, I'm always fine."

Her smile matched her statement, deliberately ironic. Still, Talib felt there was something more behind it.

Next time, he resolved, as they waved and went their separate ways, I'll ask her first.

It was the most positive he'd felt since the night before, at dinner. Back then, standing reluctantly for inspection in the fire-warmed study, Talib had wriggled. If only they would stop beaming at him.

"Oh, it looks marvelous," his mother had crooned, "so sharp."

Talib blushed and shifted awkwardly in the suit. Rarity's commission - courtesy of Progress's tactical "generosity" - had arrived a little before dinner, the large package easily carried by a stout fish-owl courier, many times the size of Owlowiscious.

"Can I take it off now?" he had asked, peevishly. His father chuckled and shared a look with Ghaliya.

Bianca just nodded. "It looks uncomfortable," she said, sympathetically. She and Talib did not share their parents' appreciation for formal garb.

"Not quite," said Melaco, appraising Talib critically. "Talib looks uncomfortable, but it has nothing to do with the fit of the suit. Ms. Unicorn appears to have done a fine job. It looks perfect. Right, Talib?"

As much as he was now regretting having played along with Progress's manipulations, Talib had to admit his father was right. With his long frame and longer limbs, nothing had ever really fit him before. But he was uneasy.

"I guess it's just so unnecessary and... impractical," he had said plaintively, "and attention-grabbing. I don't want everypony looking at me, thinking how vapid I am."

Ghaliya rolled her eyes. Melaco gave his son a familiar, slightly despairing look. But Bianca got in first.

"Oh, stop being so self-absorbed," she had said. "Your anxiety is getting the better of you. You realize, I hope, that you won't be the centre of attention?"

"Look," Melaco had said, with the resignation of somepony who is not optimistic about being listened to, "not everypony over-thinks things..." like me, Talib mentally appended, guessing the unspoken words which had left the gap in his father's speech. "Some won't notice, some won't care, most will think 'what a nice suit' and that will be that."

Talib had been momentarily silent. "But it feels... fake. Like I'm pretending to be something I'm not."

"Relax, dear," said his mother. "Nopony has to earn the right to wear nice clothes. That's something you give to yourself. Anyway, making such a fuss is just as superficial and uncharitable as your imaginary critics. Give ponies some credit."

Talib sagged. "I just wish it didn't matter what I look like. That's the kind of thing Progress Miller thinks about," he said, remembering their first encounter at the Harvest Parade, and Progress's ultra-formal attire, "he seems to choose his clothes like weapons. Like a symbol of rank."

"That would be nice, if it didn't matter," his mother had agreed, "but the practical truth is that it does matter. You can still make use of that without being superficial - clothes can send much more subtle messages than 'obey'. They can show belonging, or respect. Just don't be too self-righteous or fall into the trap of reverse snobbery."

Bianca and Talib had looked at each other in solidarity, and their parents finally stopped admiring him. He undressed with alacrity.

After dinner, Talib had been sent firmly back to bed, and lay there contentedly. It had been a good day. Despite this, he had lain awake for some time, eyes staring blankly at the dark wooden roof. Tomorrow... tomorrow was another matter. How would his family react to Hayfa? And Old Sim... Talib thought, concernedly. The gruff workpony loathed griffons. Well, there's nothing to be done now, he thought, with barely-comforting fatalism. Eventually he had slept.

As he hurried through the rain, Talib reflected on his naiveté - thinking that the meal with Hayfa would be the only challenge he faced today. In any case, after the chat with Moondancer and a quick bite to eat, Talib found his malfunctioning brain easier to bear as he returned to work at Sim's stall. He still miscounted change, forgot things, had trouble understanding ponies, and felt like snapping at every little perceived rudeness, but somehow he now could find the willpower to push through. By now the rain felt like a fact of life, unsurprising and unrelenting, and ponies were disinclined to linger at the markets. Sim and Talib closed up early, storing everything in the back of the cart but leaving the awning up for shelter while they waited, staring at nothing in particular, speaking not at all. Their silence assumed, to Talib, a similar character to the rain; natural, and somehow comforting.

They didn’t have to wait long. The Canes had likewise finished early, and had brought Sim's kin: Huon, his wife Marjorie, and their son, Ash; a quiet, fussy young stallion with a deep grey coat. They'd all met very briefly that morning on the way to market, but Talib hadn't had much chance to get to know them.

"Ho there, brother," proclaimed Huon - slightly pompously, Talib thought - "how goes the day's commerce?"

"Goes fair enough," was Sim's laconic reply.

"I tell you, Sim," continued Huon, "you should get into food sales. Anypony selling something hot today was making a killing." Sim snorted, gently, and Talib immediately thought about all the extra overhead, capital, and work - work for which Sim was neither equipped nor experienced - which food sales would entail. He wondered that Huon didn't see that, but Sim's brother continued, apparently oblivious of their skepticism. "Why," he pronounced, "we came across one mare - lovely, strapping pony, friendly as you please - selling hot apple fritters." Talib jolted a little, and hoped he wasn't blushing. Huon, at least, certainly wasn't paying attention to him, though Bianca seemed to gaze at him a little long. "It was unbelievable," continued Huon, "They were selling like hot cakes!"

"No dear," said Marjorie gently, "the hot cakes were the next stall over. The fritters were actually more popular."

"I think you'll find it was neck-and-neck, darling," said Huon, brushing his wife's observation aside with a wave of his hoof. She seemed used to it. "Point is, food sells very well here. I mean, how much did you make today, Sim?" he asked bluntly, causing the Canes' collective eyebrows to raise, Sim to scowl, and Ash to wince slightly behind his spectacles.

Ghaliya spoke up. "We have some thoughts on that, actually," she said, "about food sales at the market, I mean, since we do a little trade ourselves. But we'd better get changed, for now - let's talk about it over dinner." Everyone agreed, and Talib caught Sim, normally taciturn, cast Ghaliya a brief look of gratitude.

Under the waxed-canvas awning, everypony donned their best clothes - including Talib with his new morning dress - and threw heavy rain-jackets over the top. Talib would rather have felt the rain soaking his coat through the clothes, but it didn't seem prudent. Sim looked him up and down, and scowled. Talib's self-consciousness, barely beneath the surface, boiled over and he wriggled into his raincoat swiftly. He realized that, despite the solid strategic reasons for accepting the "gift" from Progress Miller, Sim was nevertheless irked by the reminder. Great, he thought, now Sim thinks I'm dancing with the devil. That'll do wonders for his mood. It did not promise to make the meeting with Hayfa any easier.

The old lumberpony's scowl drove them to haste, in order that they could be at the restaurant five minutes early for their booking, as was his custom. L'Ash Tombée was quiet at this early hour - too late for lunch, but too early for dinner - but its fires were lit and it beckoned invitingly through the gloomy afternoon. The time had been chosen carefully; it allowed everypony plenty of time to get home afterwards, and in any case the Canes were not sure what to expect of their griffon guest, so a large audience was not desirable. Talib thought that in any case Hayfa, too, would rather prefer it that way.

Savoir Fare himself opened the door and gave them warm welcome, peremptorily beckoning underlings to unburden his guests of their wet coats. They were directed through the cavernous space, seeming all the larger for being mostly empty, to a large table at the rear. Before their escorting waitpony could depart, Melaco immediately took charge, as he did in these settings, ordering water and hot bread rolls with butter to be brought immediately. As well as having served with distinction in various well-regarded eateries, dining had been elevated to a high art in his home country of Portugallop and, considering himself the host, he set to work passing around the drinks menu and suggesting some entrees. Ghaliya, meanwhile, broke up the ponies' instinctive groupings so that Talib, rather than sitting with his sister, was placed between Sim and Huon, while Bianca was between Ash and Marjorie. One chair sat empty, but it seemed to hold a tense, foreboding character, like a spectre at the feast which everypony did their best to ignore. Shortly, drinks were ordered and delivered, and Melaco toasted Talib and Sim's narrow escape and swift recovery.

Just as they had begun to fall to general chatting, conversation in the crowded restaurant decayed. Slowly at first, then rapidly they were plummeted into complete silence as more and more ponies looked around. Some gasped in shock, but most merely stared, jaws open, at the new arrival. From the back of the room, Sim's gaze was narrow-eyed and hostile. Hayfa, militarily punctual, had just made her entrance.

Here we go, thought Talib, feeling his stomach lurch and his appetite, already diminished since the concussion, vanish. If this meal was half as tense as he anticipated, he would not be eating much tonight.

Author's Notes:

Continuing his experiments despite the concussion, Talib is apprehensive about the upcoming dinner where his family (and Sim) will meet Hayfa for the first time. His concussion causes unexpected problems on market day, but luckily he has a friend nearby to talk him down. The dinner finally arrives, but despite his time with the griffoness, Talib is far from certain that the event will remain civilized, especially in light of Sim's hatred of the species...