It was that time of year when the air was cool and crisp, with just the lightest touch of bite that foreshadowed the upcoming months ahead. It was drawing towards dusk, and overhead a few wispy clouds still glowed in rich purple-salmon hues from the sun now low on the horizon, Princess Celestia as yet not having lowered it.

It was already rather dark in the clearing, which was located in the middle of one of the rare stands of pine (the White Tail Wood being primarily deciduous), and sat just off the path that traveled roughly northeast away from Ponyville. As clearings went this one was of generous size, more than sufficient for the wagon that was neatly parked in its middle. Pine needles carpeted the ground so thickly that there were no signs of tracks from the wagon having entered. Nor were there any ruts in the lane the clearing sat adjacent, for this truly was off the beaten path.

Most everypony in Ponyville knew about the path, of course. But it was so very seldom used. Its heyday had been back during Ponyville's founding, used as a route to a good stand of oak trees, many of whose lumber still existed as timber in homes and houses. But as the village grew into a town, better roads had been built and so this one had fallen into disuse.

This particular clearing lay roughly three miles just outside Ponyville's unofficial border, no more than a fifteen minute leisurely trot, giving it enough distance for reasonable privacy yet remaining within easy travel back and forth . . . which was a very practical, and very attractive, consideration for its current resident.

Also of practical and appealing consideration was the small stream that merrily babbled just feet outside of the clearing itself. Granted, during very cold weather it had a distressing tendency to ice up, but it was such a vigorously-flowing brook that it took several days of extreme cold for that to happen.

Although few residents were truly aware of the path's historical significance, virtually everypony knew of the clearing's current residence.

After all, The Great and Powerful Trixie had quite the reputation, especially in Ponyville!

This wagon was not, of course, her former traveling one. That one had been destroyed during her first visit to Ponyville and, in many ways, that destruction had broken her heart. Nopony really knew (or, as far as Trixie had ever been able to tell, had cared to understand) just how precious that wagon had been to her. It had been far more to her than a home; it had represented far more than a stage.

It had been her life.

After her second —and even more disastrous, humiliating and shameful— visit there, a pony might have thought that Ponyville would be the very last place in Equestria that Trixie would have chosen to put down stakes. The truth was, though . . .

Trixie had nowhere else to go.

As painful as it had been to admit it to herself, Trixie had finally accepted the reality that after her first loss to Twilight Sparkle she hadn't learned anything from that lesson. Instead, she'd harbored a grudge so deep, a resentment so powerful, that she'd done everything in her ability —as unethical and immoral as that might have been . . . and had wound up being— to garner power of such a magnitude to make her next confrontation with that goody four-shoes unicorn foal's play.

Instead, Twilight Sparkle had tricked her into giving up that immense power; she'd conned her out of the Alicorn Amulet and, in doing so, had saved Trixie.

This time there had been no rancour, no ill-will or malice. Within minutes of her having removed and exchanged that amulet for a gaudy knickknack doorstop Trixie realized, with a horror she'd never felt before, just how close she'd come to being consumed by that evil power. She truly had been contrite; her apology really had been sincere. And miracle of miracles . . .

Twilight Sparkle had accepted that apology.

And Trixie truly had done her best to turn over a new leaf. But no matter where she'd traveled —and she'd gone from one extreme of Equestria to the other— she'd been ostracized; mocked, scorned and belittled. She'd tried; she'd really, really tried! But virtually every time she hadn't even been given the chance to prove she'd reformed. In fact, on more than a few occasions she'd been pelted with rotten fruits and vegetables before taking more than a few hoofsteps into town!

When Trixie found herself on the border between Equestria and Griffonia, actually contemplating crossing over and emigrating there on her search for a place of acceptance she'd realized she'd finally hit rock-bottom, yet had a kindly border guard not stopped her, she would have done just that, having nothing else left to lose.

The only reasons that kept her from doing so afterwards had been two things. One had been that they'd been willing to trade a night's shelter, plus dinner and breakfast, in exchange for a performance, for Trixie had told the guard of her intentions: to be a traveling entertainer. The second, however . . .

The second reason had been her remembrance of Twilight Sparkle's expression and voice at their last meeting.

And so Trixie had begun the long, wearying way back to Ponyville, fully prepared to humbly approach Twilight Sparkle, hat in hoof.

Just north of Galloping Gorge she'd stopped by an old prospector's camp for the night. He was actually on the way to Galloping Gorge itself for this last time because, as he'd said, he was “just too plumb old t' keep diggin' up dang rocks” anymore. The next day, before he broke camp, the elderly earth pony invited Trixie to come with him to the town. Since it was on the way she didn't see the harm so she humored him, accompanying him the entire day and listening to his rambling stories.

Just outside the town, however, he shocked Trixie; coming to a halt he shook off the traces of the good-sized traveling wagon he'd been pulling, then stepped out of the harness before motioning for her to approach.

“She's a good ol' girl,” he wheezed, gently rapping the side of the wagon. “Nothing fancy, true, but she's lasted me through thick 'n' thin. Jes' doesn't feel right t' jes' let her go t' waste. So . . . here,” he finished, gesturing with a creaky foreleg to the harness. “Take her. She's yours now.”

And so, just like that, Trixie had a wagon again.

In some ways it was superior to her original traveling stage/performance wagon. For one thing it was a third as long as well as a third as wide. For another, the wider wheels and superior suspension made for easier pulling. For yet another, it was meant to truly live out of: it had a kitchen, sink, bed and closet space. And last but not least, it was also meant to work from: both sides had fold-down awnings which revealed areas where one could perform tinkering work, and either one of those could, with some work, be modified into a performance stage.

But although it had been scrupulously maintained, it was also very old. Paint was bubbling and peeling in places, and the paint itself was strictly functional, nothing at all bright, cheery or appealing like her old wagon had been painted. The curtains and other fabrics were clean, yet they were also threadbare in spots. Pots and pans were of good cast iron, but the dishes and other cooking items had seen better days.

She certainly wasn't complaining though! Not at all! It was just . . .

. . . just that, no matter how hard she tried —and lately, she'd been trying very hard— at heart she was, pure and simple, a showpony.

It was all she'd ever wanted to do.

And it seemed all it had ever done for her was ruin her life.

It had estranged her from her parents.

It had caused problems for her at Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns, to the point she had left before graduating.

It had finally resulted in her parents formally disowning her, because of her lifestyle choice.

And there, at the very end, Trixie still felt the throbbing call deep inside her, a pulse beat she couldn't ignore no matter how hard she valiantly strove nor no matter what the ultimate cost might be.

Her arrival this time in Ponyville had not started auspiciously. Trixie had been entering the town from the west, having departed Appleloosa some time ago. This, however, had taken her just north of Sweet Apple Acres, and she hadn't passed by unnoticed. As she was heading towards Ponyville a smaller wagon, drawn by a slender mare, had been approaching, traveling in the opposite direction. Once it had drawn to within several feet, though, the mare had stopped and, with a quite noticeable —and recognizable— familial accent had drawled, “Well, they do say th' third time's th' charm. Come back t' try yer luck again?”

Trixie had no idea what she must have looked like upon hearing that. She did, however, know how she'd felt at those words: utter and complete hopelessness. She'd just stood there, feeling her legs quivering as the last tiny particle of desperate hope she'd despairingly clung to evaporated into nonexistence. Her chest grew tight; it was hard, almost impossible, to breathe. Her vision swam as tears filled them.

“Whoa now! Y'all OK thar?” the mare —Apple Brioche was her name, as Trixie later found out— urgently asked.

All Trixie could do was numbly shake her head in negation. No. No, she certainly wasn't “OK”, and probably would never be so again.

“No . . . nopony else will have Trixie,” she'd managed, somehow, to have choked out. “Trixie . . . Trixie just wants someplace to stay. She . . . she won't cause any trouble.”

There were some ponies that looked scornfully down their long, aristocratic muzzles at the Apple family, considering them rustic hicks and rubes. But nopony that truly knew the Apples would have been surprised at Apple Brioche's actions. She'd ducked out of her harness before you could say “peach cobbler” and had held Trixie, gently patting her back and telling her that everything would be all right, and had kept holding her until the broken sobs had eased.

It had been Apple Brioche who had helped Trixie out of her wagon harness and had taken that up onto her own shoulders.

And it had been Apple Brioche who had suggested the isolated clearing to Trixie, and then had hauled her wagon-home there, helping her guide it into the clearing and getting it properly stabilized and secured.

It had also been Apple Brioche who had explained to the bemused and befuddled unicorn just why there was this huge palace just north of Ponyville . . . and just whom the Princess residing there was.

Twilight Sparkle, naturally. Who else would it be?

Except, of course, it was actually Princess Twilight Sparkle.

All Trixie had wanted to do once her wagon had been positioned and the very helpful farm pony had departed was to just collapse, have a good cry, and offer thanksgiving to whichever deities had deigned to finally smile down on her, and then crawl into bed and pass out for, oh, a week or two. Unfortunately that hadn't happened.

She did manage the first three on that agenda, but before she'd stumbled off into blessed unconsciousness she'd had several visitors, one right after the other.

First off had been Applejack, with Apple Brioche tagging along. Oddly enough the farm mare seemed more concerned about any immediate needs Trixie might have than whatever nefarious plots might have precipitated her return. Having said that, however, it was also quite clear that Applejack was seeking assurance that everything was on the up-and-up.

While they were still there Rainbow Dash dropped in . . . quite literally, backwinging her way through the clear sky above the tall pines that surrounded the clearing. Thank Celestia Applejack had still been there, because Rainbow Dash had no sooner realized that the strange unicorn she'd spotted from above was actually a quite familiar, infamous one she knew, than she'd ruffled her feathers and gotten very aggressive.

She'd also gotten very flustered when both farm mares turned on her and scolded.

They might still have kept bickering except for the last of the visitors that late afternoon and, like Rainbow Dash she, too, descended from above.

Trixie just closed her eyes and fought the emotions roiling within her at seeing Twilight Sparkle. Princess Twilight Sparkle. Not even a unicorn as the prior two times, but an alicorn instead.

She didn't remember much about that visit. She'd been physically exhausted and emotionally drained, and topping off all that had been the extremely difficult struggle to throttle the furious burst of jealousy that had exploded inside her upon seeing an alicorn princess before her. Trixie hadn't come back to Ponyville for yet another round of competition between the two of them but, if she had . . .

It wasn't even a matter of trying to stay within shouting distance anymore. Twilight had surpassed Trixie by a margin so huge . . .

Since the clearing was located on public land it was decided that Trixie could remain encamped there for as long as she wished . . . what was left diplomatically unsaid was “and for as long as she behaved”. It was also understood, without actually having been formally declared, that Trixie deserved privacy the same as anypony else, and that while dropping by for a visit was one thing gawking would be quite another.

Since she didn't have a magic purse brimming with bits Trixie needed to work. Often that was for bits, while at other times for barter. She never complained, no matter what task she'd accepted. She was trying, really trying, to fit in. But it was hard, so very hard. For no matter how hard she tried denying it, deep inside her pulsed the need to perform, to prove herself the best.

Now and then she'd introspectively gaze into the mirror fastened over the sink in her wagon, just peering intensely into the reflected depths and asking herself, I'm still the Great and Powerful Trixie . . . aren't I?

Her parents had certainly never thought so.

Her teachers had certainly never thought so.

Twilight Sparkle had certainly proved she wasn't.

There were times when the strain of responsibility, the need for decision making, the necessities of duty and restraint, weighed heavily upon the Great and Powerful Trixie. Times when she wished things were simpler, less complicated. And sometimes . . .

. . . sometimes when she wished somepony else were making all the decisions. A somepony that wanted Trixie very, very badly for themself.

Tonight was one of those times.

The sun was fully down now, and the clearing was pitch dark, the thick stand of pines working like heavy drapes to block out the dim light from the thin crescent moon Princess Luna had recently ascended into the heavens. The trees not only screened light but blocked wind as well. In fact, unless it was an unusually strong and heavy storm the clearing was an oasis of calm amidst tempests.

They also had the salubrious effect of virtually eliminating outside noise; between the distance to Ponyville, the muffling properties of the needled branches and the dampening effect of the thick layer of shed ones the clearing about the wagon was surprisingly silent. Because of how chill it was, and due to the lateness of the season, there weren't even the faint chirps of crickets.

Even as quiet as the clearing was, anypony standing just outside the wagon would have had an extremely difficult time hearing anything from inside; the wagon might have been old, but it was sturdily-built and quite rugged.

Unfortunately . . . the reverse was quite true: it would take a ruckus —or perhaps a fracas— outside to be heard inside.

A thin curl of smoke threaded its way upwards from the ceramic chimney at the front of the wagon. That was the only sign of occupancy to be seen from outside; should there have been anypony sneaking about outside, that is.

Trixie had double- and triple-checked the immediate area before retiring inside. That had been about half an hour ago. Between then and now she'd been a very busy unicorn indeed.

After making one last (and admittedly semi-paranoid) inspection round outside, Trixie had entered the wagon and carefully secured and locked the entrance door. After that she'd assured the drapes were completely covering the windows, then added a bit of coal to the stove so that the interior would remain warm. Taking a last sip of water she then magically unlocked with her horn a special locker.

A very special locker indeed.

Quite a few thick, fat rolls of apparent fabric were levitated out and sat on the floor in front of the chair she'd shifted to the far front of the interior aisle before Trixie lifted out her most special garment:

A straitjacket.

Already her mouth was feeling a bit dry as her pulse accelerated, just as it always did during preparations . . . and, quite often, afterwards, too!

Unfortunately this wasn't her original. That had been lost, along with everything else, when her first traveling wagon had been destroyed. However, she mostly missed that one for sentimentality's sake, as that had been the one that had opened up a very wide, quite new and exciting world to her.

Back when the Great and Powerful Trixie had first taken to the road she'd still been experimenting with various kinds and styles of performances. One of those she'd debated including were feats of escape.

That had sounded quite intriguing in theory but had been something else in practice. For one thing, in order to properly perform such acts a pony needed at least one assistant, and possibly two. For another, there was no mistaking the Great and Powerful Trixie for anything other than what she was: an extremely talented and formidable unicorn mage.

Regarding the former issue, she had no desire to share the limelight, no matter how peripheral, with anypony else, so that meant no assistants, while regarding the latter, well . . . if she could get into things without help then obviously she could get out of them just as hoofily, too.

So Trixie had shelved the notion of adding escape artistry to her repertoire. She'd also shelved, quite literally, the straitjacket, too, tossing it into a storage trunk half-filled with odds and ends.

What hadn't been so easily tucked away was how wearing that had made her feel.

Several nights later had seen Trixie removing it from the trunk. Her tummy had been feeling fluttery the moment she'd contemplated doing so, and simply toying with it had made those flutters even worse.

Slipping it back over and on, then securing the straps and lacings before finishing up with folding her forelegs across her chest and securing those straps behind her, well . . .

She'd spent at least an hour wearing it that first time, simply exploring the wealth of complex sensations and feelings that had evoked as she shifted and pulled, tugged and squirmed, learning beyond any shadow of any doubt there really was no way at all of shrugging it off without using her magic to remove it.

On and off over the next several weeks Trixie found herself, again and again, being drawn to that garment . . . and to the feelings (and, later, daydreams) that simply wearing it kindled.

Soon she'd found herself wishing that there was a similar garment, one made for the hind legs and torso. Since Trixie wasn't at all sure there wasn't such a thing she'd made several, quite cautious and discreet (and completely flamingly blushing as well) inquiries into the matter.

One of those inquiries (which had also produced the most spectacular blushing one of them all) resulted in a quite sober-faced earth pony clerk at a medical supply store suggesting that “perhaps the Lady might wish to try these, instead?”. Considering that Trixie was positive the mare had realized what the true purpose behind the asking for such an item really was she was surprised she hadn't self-incinerated from embarrassment on the spot.

“These” wound up being twelve-inch wide elastic bandages, the sort used for sprains and strains. They were not only stretchy but clingy as well, sticking to itself but not to anything else.

Trixie almost bolted when the clerk inquired whether any demonstrations were needed as to the proper use, especially when she'd detected the light twinkle in the otherwise serious eyes. But she'd ponyfully swallowed that urge, and eventually had walked out with a round dozen of the bandages.

That clerk had not steered Trixie falsely. They might not be quite as fascinating to use as the straitjacket, but they were definitely much more versatile!

Over the years Trixie had sought —with a surprising rapidity, to be honest— more and more sensation, more and more restriction. Losing her traveling wagon had been a more terrible blow than anypony could, or would, have realized. It had not only shattered her destiny but had also destroyed her sole means of stress relief, and the focus of her dreams and desires.

These last few months had done wonders for her stability, even if she did continue suffering from bleak periods of depression because of her crushed ambitions; aspirations that continued haunting her whether awake or asleep.

She took a moment to lay out on the floor a worn yet serviceable wool blanket, both to insulate her from the chill of the wood floorboards as well as provide a modicum of cushion from the hardness of that selfsame floor, a surface she'd very shortly be resting atop.

“Lifting” up the straitjacket Trixie carefully positioned it, feeling her pulse begin accelerating at the same time her belly picked up its fluttering. Raising her forelegs she lowered the garment down over her head and neck, wriggling her limbs up and into the sleeves as it descended. Squirming her torso a bit she guided it all the way down and settled it in place. Adjusting her “aim” she first snugged the lacings at the back, sturdy cords that crisscrossed down the length and drew the sides of the straitjacket snug, and then finished off by pulling the four sets of straps at the back even firmer than the lacings had been drawn.

Next she sat down on the blanket-covered floor. Trixie had quite a few positions she'd worked out over the years, ranging from mild to extremely restrictive. Tonight, though, she just wanted to relax in the embrace of the bindings. Stretching her hind legs out she pressed them together as she “lifted” one of the fat elastic bandage rolls and guided it towards her hooves. Starting at pasterns and slowly working her way upwards, Trixie carefully pulled the bandage snug but not taut. Because of its tacky surface each overlap clung to the one beneath it, so she didn't have to pull it overly taut to keep the windings from slipping and sliding: once they were in place, they stayed in pace. She pulled it just taut enough to pin her legs firmly together, yet left just the teeniest of slack so that she could struggle and feel the bandage windings teasingly give just that littlest of bits.

It took several rolls to completely encase her hind legs from pastern to gaskin, and her skin twitched and shivered the entire time she did so. Still sitting up she “lifted” up a very elaborate sleep mask, settling that in place over her eyes, the twin straps guided behind her ears, before she used yet another elastic bandage, this time winding it around and over her muzzle, all the way up to cover over the sleep mask, covering her head and leaving only nostrils and ears exposed.

Taking a deep breath through flaring nostrils Trixie finally folded forearms across her chest, one atop the other, then guided the straps at the ends of the sleeves through the loops at the sides before buckling the ends together, drawing the straps quite taut indeed.

Very carefully she wriggled and squirmed until she was lying on her side, stretched out. Once she was comfy —well, as comfy as she could get, anyway; she silently giggled— Trixie just relaxed, surrendering to the embrace of the bindings, now and then softly humming as she fidgeted, both testing the security of her confinement and simply seeking relief from that as well.

She'd gotten thoroughly “into the zone” and in that twilighty dreamy state when she suddenly stiffened, eyes wide beneath the sleep mask. Trixie wasn't sure what it was that had alarmed her, but it had been something. Her heart was beating faster, and it wasn't because of her daydreams.

Blindly stretching out her senses Trixie strove to detect whatever it had been that had tweaked her attention. She didn't think she'd heard anything. At the moment all she could hear was her own breathing, and the throbbing pulse in her ears. And she certainly couldn't see anything. So . . . what had it been?

The next few seconds happened so fast Trixie had no chance to react to anything until it was far too late.

There was a gentle, feather-light tap to the side of her horn, so soft that at first Trixie was certain she'd simply imagined it. It was enough, however, to have her tense right up, and so when the second tap came there was no mistaking it.

Panic surged within her, blossoming like wildfire in dry summer grass as she felt, in addition to that tap, the faintest brush of magic in the air. Almost immediately she focused on the sleeve straps to unbuckle and begin freeing herself . . .

. . . almost immediately.

It would have taken a superpony effort not to have hesitated before acting, and as great and powerful as Trixie truly was, she was still very much pony in her reactions. She hesitated the merest fraction of a second, but that was all it took. Almost the very moment she invoked the power to begin freeing herself there came yet a third touch to her horn. Except, this time . . .

This time it wasn't a tap . . . it was a scrape.

She felt, as well as heard, whatever that thing was as it glided down her horn. Then she froze, heart suddenly hammering hard enough to burst, as Trixie realized the straps behind her weren't unbuckling. Her mouth went desert-dry as she focused again, only to realize her magics were being disrupted.

No. Not just disrupted . . . they were being totally blocked.

Moments later she felt her wagon sway a bit, as if a weight had just settled on the rear step . . . or as if somepony had just stepped up there. There was a surge of extremely controlled magic, instantly followed by the 'clck' of the door lock being freed and the latch being opened. A second later and Trixie heard the soft 'squee' of the hinges; felt the sudden chill draft caress her body as the door was opened.

She started panting, torn between humiliation and terror, hearing the door close, then latch . . . followed by the light clop of hoofsteps as the intruder came closer.

Trixie couldn't help it: she softly whimpered in atavistic fear, utterly helpless.

And then came the voice . . . and a very familiar voice it was, too!

“Shhhhh . . . shhhhhh! Don't be scared Trixie. It's OK. I promise.”

Twilight Sparkle!?