It didn’t take long for Tempest to track Meadowsong down. He found her muzzle-deep in candied apple chips, and trotted up behind her.

“Having fun?”

She beamed at him. “This is the most fun I’ve had since-- since I got here! Thanks ever so much for this!”

“Yeah, no problem. What’s with the disappearing act?”

Meadowsong glanced at the ground quickly, then back to Tempest. “I, er, wished to collect our Silver Points.” She levitated their card. On it, 10 Points shone brightly.

Tempest nodded slowly, tucking the card into his wing. “All right, so where to next?”

She grinned. “How about the Market? I’ve got some bits to spend, and I would dearly love a souvenir.”

They left the race course stands, and meandered through the crowds towards the packed Market. Meadowsong craned her neck around, taking care not to miss a single thing. Tempest chuckled a little. She drank in the scenery like a parched pony might throw back water. She ‘ooh’ed and ‘aah’ed over things Tempest would have just passed by, like a spoon set fashioned by a local unicorn or a painting of the sunset viewed from Ponyville.

This last was especially interesting to Meadowsong. She admired the way the artist had captured Celestia’s Sun dipping between the spires of Canterlot as it slipped beyond the mountains. She gushed over it so much, that Tempest could see the artist getting a little embarrassed.

“Ma’am, I’m just--” the artist paused as Meadowsong winced. “I’m just a minor talent at best. Just sell my works at fairs like this ‘un.” His thick Appleloosan drawl hitched up a notch. “Y’all’re from Canterlot, right? Y’must’ve seen much better than mine there.”

“Oh, no, mister… um…” she looked plaintively at the artist.

“Pastoral View.”

“Mister View, your style is just so-- and the way you’ve hidden your brushstrokes! It’s altogether-- And I should know, I’ve seen a fair few so-called ‘talented painters’ back at the palace--” she froze, and coughed.

Pastoral View raised an eyebrow. “Well, if’n y’all like it so much, I’d part with it fer 20 bits.”

Meadowsong’s face lit up, then fell. “Oh, no, I couldn’t. I seem to lack the funds. But I’ll spread the word.”

“She’ll take it,” Tempest said. He gingerly lifted his wing, snagged his wallet with his teeth, and tapped out twenty golden coins onto View’s booth.

View swept them off the counter, and nodded to Tempest. “All your’n.”

Meadowsong’s squeal of delight could’ve been heard from those same spires depicted in Pastoral View’s work, Tempest was certain. He started to shoulder it, then grunted in pain. He’d forgotten about his strained wing.

Meadowsong encircled the painting in her magical field, and lifted it off of his back.

“You paid, I’ll carry it. I insist.”

Their next stop was at a tent that reminded Tempest of nothing more than a filly’s layered cute-ceañera cake, with pale blues and lavenders as frosting. The sign out front advertised “Couture in only one style-- FABULOUS!” and that the tailor could make anypony “stand above the pennants of Canterlot!” if they dared to wear her designs.

It made Tempest itchy. Of course, Meadowsong wanted to go in.

The interior was as frilly as the outside had been, with dresses, saddles, and the like displayed one after the other. Heavy curtains divided the tent in half, hiding the rear from sight. Little bells tinkled in the air, announcing their intrusion.

“Visitors?” A mare’s voice, also cultured, cut through the silence. Her’s wasn’t the crisp notes of Meadowsong’s Canterlot, but held the same weight. “Por moi? Be still, my heart!”

A little more melodramatic, though.

A white unicorn with a purple mane done in an extravagant swooping style poked her head out through the curtains, and gasped.

“Oh dear, and with me right in the middle of a delicate lace fringe… You darlings stay right there, I’ll be with you in two twinkles of a gem’s facets!” She zipped back behind the curtains.

“... A what?” Meadowsong blinked, nonplussed.

“... Yeah, we’re--” Tempest started.

The unicorn’s head emerged again, now wearing red horn-rimmed glasses. “Right. There.”

Tempest and Meadowsong sat down and sighed in unison.

The unicorn went back to her work, and left them sitting there for quite a while. Every so often, snatches of tunes would waft through the curtains. Sometimes it was something one of the buskers outside was playing. Just as often, it was something else. Tempest had heard it somewhere before, but he couldn’t place it until Meadowsong started singing along. The two unicorns then started singing in harmony:

Sweetie Belle, Tempest thought. That was Sweetie Belle’s “Crusaders”.

Sweetie Belle was one of the best singers in the world, and she hadn’t even gotten her cutie mark yet. Tempest didn’t follow music, and didn’t know much about the personalities surrounding that culture, but he knew Sweetie Belle. She had talent, and loved sharing her songs with the world. Sure, she was usually a little more pop and cheer than Tempest preferred. This one, though, was his favorite. A wish to return to a happier time was something he understood, and the vaguely country twang was appreciated.

After all, you don’t live one stop down from Appleloosa without picking up a few things.

He realized that the pony on the other side of the curtain had stopped her sewing. He looked up as the red velvet parted, revealing the pretty unicorn mare’s workspace. The aura of her horn still traced the operating line of the curtains. Her eyes were as wide as her grin. She folded her glasses into her aura, and released the line. As she set them down on her worktable, she crossed to the others.

“You’re fans of my sister?”

Sister?

“I had the honor of seeing her perform at Canterlot last year, and loved her!” Meadowsong stamped happily. “And you must be Rarity, her stage manager?”

“Oh, yes! And her costume designer, production manager, and so on-- but I get ahead of myself! I am Rarity Belle, at your humble service!” She bowed low, and rose with a flourish. “And to have seen my sister perform in Canterlot, you must be--”

Meadowsong nickered. “Meadowsong, my dear. My name is Meadowsong.”

Rarity froze, but recovered quickly. “Er, of course, my mistake, forgive me. And who is this young stallion? That is a most interesting headscarf-- headwrap? Er, what is it, exactly? It’s fetching, to be sure, but I can’t place the design. Is it from Saddle Arabia?” Rarity’s brow furrowed, and she tilted her head. “Or perhaps--”

Tempest sighed. “It’s the wrap for the handle of an old blade. It’s been in the family for generations.”

Rarity’s face lit up again. “Oh, it’s marvelous, darling! I’d never have thought to work martial elements into a fashion piece! And the little symbol in the center there? It rather looks like crossed keys, but I--”

“It’s my family crest, or at least that’s what I’ve heard.”

Rarity shot bolt upright, and grinned. “I love it! This may be the ticket to designing the uniforms for the Canterlot Royal Guard, and that’d be--” She giggled.

Tempest rolled his eyes. “Glad to help. Hey, Meadowsong, could we--”

“Oh, where are my manners,” Rarity said quickly, “you’ve not been fitted! Oh, where is my head today, I ask you? Do join me in my studio!”

Meadowsong pranced happily behind the counter, and into the workshop. Tempest groaned, and followed behind. Next Chapter: Chapter 5: Ah! Gonzo! Estimated time remaining: 8 Minutes