Savoring a post-breakfast cup of coffee outdoors wasn't something Trixie had enjoyed in a very long time and, although it might be considered extremely brisk even for late fall, the temperature didn't bother her in the least.

Of course, the fact that she'd cast a spherical warming spell centered on her table might have more than a little bit to do with her being so comfortable. Well, physically comfortable, at any rate.

It hadn't been the temperature, or anything at all to do with the environment, that had been keeping her sheltered within her wagon. Well, the latter hadn't been always correct; her first week living on Ponyville's outskirts had seen the most unusual weather. It had been rather . . . odd . . . just how many minor storm clouds had chosen to hover over her clearing.

Trixie had no idea who had said what to whom, but that peculiar weather had ceased the day she'd arrived in Ponyville one morning to help clean Town Hall in order to earn a few bits. Mayor Mare had been quite surprised to see a soaked and dripping unicorn showing up for work . . . especially since the weather was bright, clear and sunny, and had been scheduled that way for weeks.

At least the daily showers had been good for the flowers and trees.

Even though the weather had become more accommodating, Trixie simply hadn't felt any desire to just sit, relax and enjoy anything even as simple as a cup of good coffee. She ate because she was hungry; not because she had any appetite, but in order to stifle the pains and pangs of gnawing hunger. She drank for the same reason: to keep from dehydrating and having thirst nag her.

She ate, drank and slept to survive; to exist.

Not to live.

No, that had died the day she'd finally accepted what everypony had been telling her for years, one way or another: that she'd never be a success with her magic; that her opinion of her skills and talents were blown way out of proportion; that, if she continued stargazing instead of knuckling down and learning real skills and spells, she was looking at a lifetime of failure.

Realizing that she'd sunk so low as to willingly use an item she'd known was cursed for no other reason than due to simple jealousy was the final act.

Taking a sip of coffee she sightlessly gazed out towards the stand of pines that surrounded her clearing. A lot had occurred over these last five days, particularly when compared to the last few years, and Trixie wasn't sure, really, what to make of everything that had happened, and double-especially so having discovered that, out of everypony in existence, Princess Twilight Sparkle wanted to be friends with her.

Well, possibly more than just “friends”, based upon what they'd talked about during their last visit just yesterday. Oh, not that kind of friend —she felt her cheek heat up at that— but, well . . . definitely a bit more than merely somepony on good terms with another, or attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard. They still hadn't worked that aspect out, which was one reason they had another date —well, social appointment; “date” also had her blush for some reason— for tomorrow night, this time at Princess Twilight's castle, hopefully to more completely thrash out things, and —again, hopefully— reach some sort of decision, conclusion, or understanding between them. They also had an additional appointment for this afternoon, too; Twilight was really eager to learn more about Trixie's salamander acquaintance.

Tendrils of fragrant steam wreathed her muzzle, like phantasmal garlands of scent and warmth twining her within their embrace, as she took another sip and let her mind wander back to what had turned out to be a truly extraordinarily astounding and revelatory brunch . . .

Trixie just gawped at Twilight, shocked to her core. But before her words could truly sink deep inside . . . her hat slipped forwards, covering her eyes.

Before she could reflexively reach up and fix it the wagon echoed with peals of poorly-smothered giggles. Pushing it back up into place, Trixie found herself lifting a brow at the mirthful hyena changeling across from her. Alas, her expression —although quite old-schooled, resembling that of a nanny displeased with the obedience (or, more accurately, the lack thereof) of her rambunctious charge— had quite the opposite effect, sending Twilight into gales of full, deep, rich laughter.

In the past such laughter (and not in the all that distant past either), had come perilously close to destroying Trixie. But not this laughter. No, these rollicking guffaws were almost cleansing in their way; refreshing and invigorating. She recalled Twilight's earlier vow —'I will promise you that, if I do laugh, it won't be at you, but with you'— and, for the second time in her life —and both of them today!— she understood that that saying wasn't just polite fiction but could, under the proper circumstances, truly be accurate and honest.

She was shocked when, out of nowhere it seemed, she felt a smile —an honest-to-goodness real smile!— spread across her face.

She felt even more shocked when she waited until her guest had struggled to compose herself . . . and then intentionally lifted her brow once again, exaggerating that motion as well as embellishing the lifted-in-the-air muzzle and accompanying disdainful sniff, pantomiming a stuffed-up, gilded aristo to an amazingly accurate and uncanny degree.

Twilight promptly lost it again, giggling so hard tears sprang in her eyes. Holding her ribs she wheezed out her surrender, begging Trixie for mercy.

“This wasn't exactly how The Gre—”

Twilight's giggles quickly trailed off as Trixie turned white, her eyes suddenly taking on a pained look. “Go on,” she murmured then, when Trixie rapidly shook her head, looking almost frightened, she softly encouraged, “It's OK; go on. Go ahead and finish it.”

Trixie wasn't just apprehensive; terror was coursing through her. “Please . . . don't,” she begged in an anguished whisper.

Twilight cocked her head to the side and then, with a tender smile, she reached out and covered Trixie's hoof with hers. “It's OK,” she assured. “You don't have to if you really don't want to. I promise,” she soothed.

“Thank you,” came the whispered response.

Twilight reassuringly patted Trixie's hoof. “I would like you wearing your hat from now on, though.”

Trixie's ears flipped back and forth, clearly mirroring her uneasiness. “Trixie does not think that would be a very good idea,” she finally said. Seeing that Twilight's cup was almost empty she refilled it from the teapot and, since the teapot itself was mostly empty she guided it over to the sink, rinsing it out before refilling it with the samovar's steamy water. “Thank you again,” she politely said to the salamander curled up beneath.

“Why not?” Twilight asked, quietly watching the proceedings.

There was a bit of silence as Trixie emptied, rinsed out, then repacked the tea infuser before placing it inside the teapot. There were many reasons she didn't wish to be seen in her (formerly) trademark hat and cape, but she finally settled on one of them. “Trixie does not wish to be mocked anymore.” She felt both brows wanting to lift as she saw Twilight's shoulders slump.

“I guess I can't argue with that,” she softly admitted, a sigh escaping flared nostrils. She really wanted to argue, too. Twilight had this, well, feeling, deep inside herself, that there was something about Trixie going back to wearing her characteristic cape and hat that was important. She had a sensation of catharsis, of healing. But no matter how powerfully that sensation was resonating inside herself, she was not going to press the issue. Not right now, not this moment. It was too soon for that.

Trixie was steeling herself, tensing up for an argument. No, not an argument . . . for a demand. It wasn't because it was Twilight making the “request”, it was just years and years of being told what to do weighing heavily on her spirit, corroded into her very being like acid-etched metal, those 'persuasions' couched as “it's for your own good”. In fact, she was so prepared for that certain eventuality that several minutes passed in silence before she finally blurted, “That's it?”

Shocked was an extremely inadequate word to describe the feeling that coursed through her when all Twilight did was nod.

Selecting a scone this time Twilight lifted it over to her plate. Carefully pulling it apart she made a yummy sound. “These look really delicious! What kind are they?”

Trixie, still feeling dumbfounded, replied, “Toasted almond and cherry, with roasted timothy seeds.”

Spreading butter over one half, Twilight took a bite, repeating her earlier sound with even more enthusiasm. Munching her mouthful she swallowed then licked her lips. “What?” she asked. “Did I get butter all over my muzzle?”

Trixie just shook her head.

“Really?” Twilight asked. “Because you're looking at me like Rarity does when I get jam on me.”

Ducking her head, Trixie apologized.

“For what?” Twilight asked.

“I . . . ah . . . that is . . .” she stuttered, feeling foolish; even more so as she felt her face ignite. “I guess Trixie just expected you to try persuading her.”

There was something odd about how Trixie had spoken “persuading”, a peculiar tone that, although Twilight couldn't put her hoof on it, nevertheless spoke volumes. I'm glad I didn't push, she thought to herself.

“Nopony likes being made fun of, Trixie,” she said. “If you truly feel that wearing your hat out in public is going to have ponies mock you, whyever would I want to persuade you to do something you fear is going to wind up with you being ridiculed?”

She could see that Trixie was starting to mentally flounder, a circumstance that was distressing Twilight. This was nothing at all like the confident —well, overconfident . . . extremely very overconfident— unicorn Twilight was familiar with. I don't like this, she thought. I don't like this at all, vowing to herself to look into matters much more deeply than she'd already peeked. For now, though . . .

Gently pushing her saucer, empty teacup perched atop, towards Trixie in a silent refill request Twilight picked up on her earlier pedagoguery. “As I was saying,” she continued the earlier thread, “You're casting illusion spells which I can't detect. That's number one.

“Number two, you're casting self-sustaining illusion spells. Most illusion spells either require the caster to remain within a set distance, or have the illusion be fixed in place. And all of them have a finite time limit to them, unless they're also cast along with some sort of evocation or enchantment. And, number three . . .”

Twilight paused, watching as Trixie refilled her teacup. Lifting the new cup up to her muzzle she took a cautious sniff before mentally sighing. Still Earl Neigh. Owell.

Adding the obligatory —for her, anyway— three sugars she stirred the brew until the cubes fully dissolved, then carefully set the spoon down before taking a sip.

“Number three is the fact that you're casting glamers of incredible skill and power. Basic glamers effect the spell target's sensory qualities; they make the spell target look, feel, taste, smell, or sound like something else. In a lot of ways, that's harder to do than it is to just transmute it.”

She took a another bite of the scone, rolling her eyes in bliss at the exquisite taste. Seeing Trixie's expression she lifted a brow. “You look surprised to hear that.”

Well, Trixie was; surprised, that is. Nodding in response she just quizzically looked at Twilight.

“I'll try to explain,” Twilight assured. “When I transmuted this sugar cube to iron,” she began, tapping the cube under discussion with her hoof, “all I needed to know was what iron is. I didn't need to know how anypony would react to iron. OK so far?”

Trixie gave a little nod in response, although she wasn't entirely sure she did understand.

“Now, let's take a different example. Suppose I'd transformed that into a durian fruit?” Twilight had to fight another case of the giggles at Trixie's reaction: her face wrinkled as a look of disgust colored her face. “I see you've experienced durian fruit!” she grinned.

Durian fruit were . . . interesting. The ripe fruits ranged from round to oval, and were roughly two hooves long and perhaps half that in diameter. For most ponies they were an acquired taste, although thestrals devoured them like candy. And the reason they were an “acquired taste” was, well . . .

It was because most ponies couldn't get past the smell of them.

They possessed an unusual flavor and odor that seemed to defy rationality, resulting in ponies expressing descriptions which ranged from deep appreciation to intense disgust. The most common description of their aroma was usually characterized as “fermented gryphon manure, turpentine and onions, garnished with a gym sock”. Other comparisons had been made with sewage, stale vomit, skunk spray and used bandages. The most common effect of opening one of them in an unsuspecting crowd was causing a stampede towards the nearest exits.

Assuming somepony managed to get past that “piquant” smell, they then faced the second line of assault: that of taste. And it was here that explained why durians weren't being burned off the face of Equestria.

Assuming your sinuses (and stomach) survived opening the fruit to begin with, inside the fruit would be found five fleshy pods. These were the edible portion of the fruit, and usually contained around three spiny seeds. The consistency of the fruit was often described as “like rich custard”, while the taste . . .

Durians had no middle ground amongst those that tried them. You either loved them . . . or you chummed your guts out behind a shrub before using a blunt butter knife to scrape the taste off your tongue. Unfortunately, the only way to tell which camp you were in was to actually try one.

“Now, I could easily change this scone here,” Twilight motioned to one of the two remaining, “into a durian. Not that I will!” she giggled, seeing Trixie recoil. “But let's just say that I have, OK?” Once Trixie nodded Twilight asked, “Anypony that saw it, or smelled it, or tasted it . . . would they be able to tell it was a durian?” When Trixie nodded again Twilight added, “Because it was a durian, right?”

She took another sip of tea, watching Trixie as she nodded again. “OK, suppose I wanted to cast a glamer on it? Suppose I wanted to make it an illusionary durian? Would that be easy to do?”

It was obvious to Trixie that she was waiting for an answer from her. “Ye-es,” she hesitantly replied, part of her bracing, feeling as if she was being set up.

“Think about that for a moment Trixie,” Twilight said, her voice suddenly much more serious, her eyes gazing very intently into Trixie's. “A hundred different ponies will have a hundred different responses to how something as complex as a durian tastes to them . . . and smells to them, too. And if any one of them thinks something isn't quite right . . . the illusion breaks. Right? So, honestly, which one do you really think is an easier spell? One that simply changes a scone to a durian, and everypony reacts to that as a durian because it is one? Or one that changes the scent, taste, appearance, texture . . . everything . . . and everypony reacts to that because they all believe it is one?”

“You need to think about that Trixie,” Twilight said. “Because I promise you this: I certainly have been, and will be.”

She deeply gazed into an extremely stunned unicorn's eyes. “And I'll tell you something else: You might be a lot of things Trixie, but you're definitely not a fake, a fraud, or a phoney.”

They never did get back to the original topic that morning, which was understandable and, most likely, a good thing, too, because Trixie had felt as if her mind had been put through a wringer. She still couldn't wrap her head around the concept of Princess Twilight wanting to be her friend, let alone accept that she also firmly believed that Trixie was a powerful magician in her own right. Trying to discuss, in addition to all that, their shared (and potentially embarrassing to talk about) secret passion would have simply resulted in a huge, cosmic mental “tilt”.

Cupping the mug between two hooves (and, truthfully, mostly supporting it via levitation) she sipped the cooling brew. Poor Twilight. It was actually pretty endearing, Trixie thought, recalling how she'd struggled to keep from being distracted by the lure of new knowledge and research that had been juicily dangled in front of her muzzle and, instead, remain focused on the here-and-now . . . and on Trixie herself.

Considering all the standing jokes, witticisms, and stories that existed regarding Twilight and her, well, extreme love of learning (and organization, and lecturing) Trixie had felt oddly flattered and honored seeing that struggle. There was still a big part of her that was cautious about affairs, expecting the other shoe to drop with a dismal, betraying clang sometime in the near future.

Standing up she dismissed the warming spell but left the table and chair outside for now. Heading inside she started cleaning up after her small breakfast. She had plenty of time until Twilight was to show up; several hours, in fact. So, in the meantime, perhaps she might . . .

Her head swiveled around hearing the light rapping at her door. Now who could that be? she wondered. It was far too early for Twilight to be arriving, and Trixie was familiar enough with Derpy's knocking to rule out a mail delivery. Mentally and physically shrugging she stepped over to the door and opened it.

“Twilight?” she said, sounding surprised. “I wasn't expecting you until this afternoon.” Trixie felt a familiar lead sensation in her belly, because Twilight was wearing the oddest expression. So . . . was it time for that other shoe, already?

“Ah . . . I know,” she replied, sounding very peculiar indeed. “But, well . . . you see, they were very eager to meet him.”

“'They'?” Trixie repeated, quite confused.

Her confusion quickly vanished, replaced by a rapidly expanding sensation of consternation as Twilight stepped back down off the porch, giving her a now-clear view . . .

A very clear view, in fact, of two utterly unmistakable alicorns.

“Ah . . . Trixie Lulamoon? May I introduce you to Princess Celestia and Princess Luna?”

Author's Notes:

The idea of durian fruit (and thestrals love of them) is credited to Raugos and his delightful story Initiation. It's well worth the read!