Four quills hovered in mid-air, softly gleaming in the light lavender auras that surrounded them. Well, “hovering” was not the most accurate description; “frenetic scribbling”, however, would do nicely in their place. Beneath each quill was a parchment scroll . . . a long scroll . . . an extremely long scroll. Twilight sat at the table —her old table, as a matter of fact— her horn illumined by the same light lavender coruscation as her quills. Her muzzle was cutely scrunched up in fierce concentration as she simultaneously transcribed the morning’s Conclave on one scroll; her concerns about the Alicorn Amulet (its possible long-term harm, and potential malevolent, lingering effects, on those who had worn and used, it) on another; a third scroll with the twin headers of “coffee beans” and “tea leaves”; and finally a growing list of questions regarding Trixie herself.

Twilight had already, even before the showpony illusionist had returned to Ponyville this last time, started looking into Trixie’s past. At first, it was cautionary prudence but, the deeper she dug . . . the less she actually discovered, which lit a burning itchy fire under her curiosity bump.

For one thing, try as she might, Twilight could find no hint of Trixie’s past prior to her acceptance into Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns. It was as if she had not existed until she had passed the threshold into her first class.

For another, although Twilight had found quite a few of Trixie’s peers and classmates, they were, one and all, barely able to provide any useful information about her. Oh, she went by Trixie now? She was called Beatrix at school. Yes, they remembered her: the social outcast, the shy wallflower, the silly goose who ignored advice and, instead of actually learning anything useful, pointlessly daydreamed about being a powerful, famous performer.

As for her teachers, they were more than just reticent to talk about Trixie; most flat-out refused to discuss anything at all other than verifying that, yes, Trixie had been in their class. The rare few that did expound on Twilight’s questions did so so vaguely that it did little to actually answer them. And as for records and transcripts?

Twilight had been able to access Trixie’s scholastic records, but in the most generic sense: what courses she took any given year, which classes, which teachers and professors, her grades. That might have sounded comprehensive, but Twilight knew better. Missing were the evaluations, the personal notes, the recommendations —good, neutral, or negative. The only reason Twilight knew that Trixie belonged to a very select group of talented unicorns —of being one of only three unicorns this generation with the aptitude and ability for all seven Disciplines— wasn’t by anything definitively recorded —as it certainly should have been!— but by interpreting the classes Trixie had been enrolled and taken . . . and assigned to take before she’d dropped out.

And when she had tried delving deeper, she discovered something disturbing: Trixie’s missing records had not just mysteriously gone missing . . . they had been collected, confiscated, and sealed . . .

By Royal Order of Princess Celestia, as the Sun Princess and Reigning Monarch of Equestria . . . and not as the Headmare of her School for Gifted Unicorns.

The quills did hover now as Twilight pensively glanced around the room . . . her room, as a matter of fact. Well, her old room, to be scrupulously accurate. It was located in the Royal Wing, immediately adjacent to Princess Celestia’s bedroom suite, in fact. Small and homey, it was a single room, with a small yet comfortable bed (for her) and a smaller donut one on the floor (for Spike), with two small bookcases (shelves bowed under the weight of books they held), a small table and two chairs, and a student desk in one corner (also quite worn from heavy usage).

When Twilight had first been accepted at Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns, she had also concurrently become Her Royal Highness’ private student (and, later on, her personal protégée). Since she had lived with her parents, Twilight Velvet and Night Light, in Canterlot, at first she’d commuted back and forth. But within months it became obvious, both to her parents and teachers as well as to Celestia, that Twilight’s thirst for knowledge, coupled with her unparalleled aptitude, meant that, as much as she loved her parents, and would (and did) miss living at home with them, she resented the time wasted spent commuting back and forth. And she had absolutely chafed, fretting and begrudging every second being away from the campus library and having to wait! until the following day in order to research all the fascinating questions her agile and lively mind continually contemplated.

Halfway through her first year it was decided that it would be in Twilight’s best interests to have her housed at the School for Gifted Unicorns, boarded with others in the school dormitory.

Halfway through the last half of her first year, it was decided for the sanity of her classmates that she be privately boarded. This room had, in fact, been just that: Twilight’s own, personal, private quarters.

By the time she’d been sent to Ponyville, Twilight had barely been using her quarters, having been housed in her own tower, complete with her very own personal library!

Her expression softly eased as nostalgia and reminiscence kindled a gentle warmth in her. This room held so many, many memories! Twilight gently blotted her eyes as she recalled so many moments in time so dear to her. It was so hard comparing that little filly with the alicorn she’d become. Whoever would have believed that possible?!

Princess Celestia would have, Twilight thought, She always believed in me.

As if the introspective alicorn’s thoughts had been a summons, at that very moment the Sun Princess herself opened the door and paced inside, pausing a moment on the threshold as her expression took on a distant look, a soft tender smile on her face as she, too, took a trip down memory lane.

“Is Princess Luna ok?” Twilight softly asked, her tone worried and concerned. Twilight was very fond of the Moon Princess, regarding her very much as the sister-sibling she’d never had, and Luna had reciprocated in self-same fashion . . . save that of being another sister in addition to her elder one. Luna was convinced that what she’d said to Trixie had been the reason the unicorn had gone stuporous catatonic. As a result, Luna had been crushed, despondent, and anguished.

Taking a deep breath, Celestia twitched her coat as she exhaled, regaining her standard “on-duty” demeanor. Warming smiling at Twilight, Celestia softly murmured, “Still my faithful student.” Gentle purple eyes twinkled as her former pupil softly blushed. She deeply exhaled, growing serious for the moment. “Luna is sleeping. She was terribly distraught, fearful that something she’d said or done had triggered Trixie’s attack.” Celestia grew sad as she continued. “I told her it wasn’t her fault; that Trixie had just grossly overextended herself, and got overwhelmed.”

“But it was what she said that triggered it. Wasn’t it?” Twilight softly said, not really a question at all.

The Sun Princess did not reply; neither confirming nor denying, which perplexed the studious, inquisitive alicorn. Instead, Celestia fondly smiled, seeing the parchment scrolls that overflowed the table. “Reminds me of old times,” she smiled even warmer. Gazing at the first one she appreciatively nodded. “Thank you Twilight. It is important that we have thoroughly, and accurately, transcribed that meeting today.” She moved onto the second, and purple eyes grew into deep, introspective pools. “I thought you’d already thoroughly researched that amulet?”

Furiously flushing, Twilight admitted that, no, she had not done so. Once Trixie had given it to Twilight, and the spell (supposedly) broken, and once Twilight had turned it over to her mentor —to be locked away in the Royal Vault for Dangerous Magicks— she had not given it a second thought. Twilight was unhappy, but understanding, when Celestia gently informed her that any research on the Alicorn Amulet would have to be at second hoof; she would not be permitted to experiment with the amulet itself.

Celestia introspectively nodded at the third scroll, the one regarding Trixie’s surprising use of illusions, and started to inquire about that, but abruptly stilled as her eyes drifted over the forth scroll.

And that’s when things went downhill very, very fast.

The huge glittering star that topped the Castle of Friendship (the shorter, more common —and far easier to pronounce— version for Princess Twilight’s Friendship Rainbow Kingdom Castle) had been visible from the moment Trixie had left White Tail Wood, her clearing actually closer to the Castle than virtually any of Ponyville’s homes. And, in truth, had her clearing not been in the middle of a thick stand of pine, but, instead, inside one of oak, once the leaves had been shaken off in fall (like they would soon be in just four more days) Trixie would have been able to see it from inside White Tail Wood. That star was just as easily spotted above the rooftops from the vantage of outside Sugar Cube Corner, as was the top of the sharply conical, two-toned gold striped uppermost spire.

Trixie had never been to the Castle of Friendship before that morning, so she hadn’t any real idea of its size or shape. She’d kept her muzzle —and thus, her eyes as well— focused down at her forehooves as she plodded along, little puffs of dust as she trudged along the avenue that terminated at the great golden stairs leading up to the two-leaved golden door into the massive, crystalline tree’s trunk.

Once the bottom tread was immediately in front of her Trixie halted, then took a deep breath in preparation before slowly, oh-so-slowly, raising her eyes up . . . and up . . . and up. Bitter jealously and indignant fury ignited inside, blazing as she finally saw the exterior of the Castle in its entirety. It wasn’t just a castle: it was an enormous, radiantly scintillating crystal tree whose trunk and branches thrust upwards, reaching for the sun that kindled rainbow coruscations . . . and cradled an entire castle within its embrace.

Trixie had no desire for even a modest castle, let alone something this . . . this outré and outrageous. No, it wasn’t the Castle itself that had her insides furiously raging; it was what it represented.

—Success.

—Recognition of skills and power.

—Symbolism of admiration and gratitude.

She no longer was jealous of Princess Twilight. Envious, yes, but not jealous. Twilight had worked hard, extremely hard, at her studies, labors, and tasks, and had earned her accolades in the only way Trixie could respect. She hadn’t been given anything, she’d earned them.

But Trixie has worked hard, too! she mentally cried out. She has willingly given up everything for her dreams! She’s fought and struggled, sweated and bled. And all she’s ever wanted was to make ponies smile; to gasp, to ooh-and-ahh at her performances; to forget their troubles for a while; to be lost in the moment, and simply enjoy! Yes, she wanted accolades and applause, Trixie choked back a sob at that weakness, her desperate need for validation, then mentally whispered, I wanted to have made a difference . . . not die alone and friendless, nopony knowing, or even caring, that I have passed away.

The fire that blazed inside her was abruptly extinguished by a bitterly cold blast as, once again, settling over her was the heavy, weighty mantle of failure and hopelessness. The broken unicorn could no longer even feel the connection with her cutie mark . . . Trixie gave a sharp savage bark at that. What a laugh that had been, that cutie mark! What it stood for, what it represented — what it had impelled . . .

An already miserable foalhood had suddenly been shown a future of bright hopes and dreams . . . an escape from utter despair and suicidal longing . . .

A future that had never transpired but, instead, had mocked her time after time after time with promise . . . holding out that carrot while, from the very inception, had been ruthlessly leading her, not to bright lush pastures, but to a bleak graveyard of scattered hopes and dreams.

Princess Luna . . . Princess Twilight . . . Trixie is sorry, her slender legs quivered as she felt tears rolling their way down her muzzle, her earlier enjoyment with Berryshine and Ruby Pinch gone, drained away and utterly banished by the rolling, pounding waves of despair and misery that were her constant companions. She thought longingly of the tiny, sealed crystal vial of concentrated amethyst syrup hidden away behind a false panel in her wagon. But Trixie is tired. She is so so tired. She is so tired of fighting. She is not as courageous, nor as strong, as Berryshine. She just wants to surrender to final sleep.

A sudden, felt-more-than-heard, displacement of air overhead made her tense. Almost simultaneously was heard a sound that reminded her of an over loose sail fluttering during tacking, then a more vigorous flapping as air was fanned against her. What in the world—

“Miss?” a deep voice softly rumbled. “Are you feeling ok?”

Coat violently rippling a moment, Trixie cautiously opened her eyes . . . then froze. Standing just inches away, and gazing at her with concern . . .

Was a bat pony. A thestral!

There was absolutely no way to mistake him —and he was undeniably male; Trixie was startled, feeling warmth expanding inside— as anything else. If the wings —multi-jointed, leathery, and purplish‑colored— didn’t give that away, the monotone grey coat with royal blue mane and tail, fluffy tuft-tipped ears, and huge golden eyes with slit pupils certainly did!

Oh, and fangs. Let’s not forget the fangs.

When Trixie just stood there, rigid and unmoving, the thestral’s expression slowly started changing, shifting from concern to blank neutrality. There was tightness to his eyes and tenseness to his posture, and abruptly something clicked in recognition inside the frozen unicorn. “Trixie is sorry,” she apologized, “She was just startled, is all. She didn’t mean to be rude, and,” she paused a moment, lifting her head up and meeting his eyes, “Do you know you’re soaking wet?”

She felt her face abruptly flame in embarrassment. She somehow doubted that the thestral was unaware of that fact, but she’d been so surprised at seeing him standing there, rivulets of water streaming down legs and dribbling off his barrel, that she’d just blurted that out.

Then she noticed those enormous golden orbs were now mostly hidden behind almost-closed lids, as he squinted at her. Moments later and those lids flew open, as eyes rounded in surprise, as a huge umbrella magically appeared overhead, plunging them both into deep shade. “Ah . . . thank you, Miss—?”

“Trixie. Trixie Lulamoon.”

His eyes flashed a moment in recognition, and then gave her a courteous bow. “Welcome to Friendship Rainbow Kingdom Castle, Miss Trixie. How may we help you?”

There were many questions Trixie had, and quite a bit of assistance she could use regarding the upcoming fireworks exhibition, but she blurted out the first thing that popped into her head, “Why are you soaking wet?”

Now his face abruptly flamed, an incredibly sheepish look on his face. “Ah . . .” he began, flushing even deeper. “Backfired practical joke,” he confessed, and then grinned as Trixie found herself burst out in giggles.

Once she regained composure Trixie announced, “Trixie is here to speak with Princess Twilight. If . . .” she hesitated, “If she has time to see her?”

“Princess Twilight is not here at the moment,” he stated, then added, “But she should be back shortly. Would you like to wait until she returns?”

“Do you know how long that might be, ah . . .” she flushed again, looking mortified. “Trixie is sorry, but she did not ask your name.”

“Crescent,” he replied, while courteously motioning up the steps towards the double doors with a forehoof, indicating that Trixie should precede him. “I’m one of Princess Twilight’s guards; Night Guard to be precise. Personally assigned by Our Lady of the Night, Her Royal Highness Princess Luna.”

There was a great deal of pride in his tone, but Trixie very quickly realized that, unlike gilded aristos, supercilious courtiers, and the like, his pride was not self-centered. Oh, don’t misunderstand; he was proud of his assignment, the same sort of pride any talented craftspony had regarding his or her work. But the vast majority of his was a magnified reflection of his relationship with Princess Luna: his personal liege, the pony he —as did all thestrals— swore, and owed, absolute and utter alliance and obedience . . . and now, albeit in a lesser degree, his association with Princess Twilight.

She dispelled the shading umbrella as they passed the threshold and entered the main lobby. Just inside the doorway and flanking either side were two Guardponies, in full uniform and duty armor. Trixie’s eyes widened upon seeing them, for they weren’t earth, pegasi or unicorn ponies; these were crystal ponies.

“As Our Lady of the Night had done, so did Princess Cadence, who assigned several units of her personal Guardponies,” Crescent smoothly explained as they passed the two crystal Guardponies, who stood there in such a silent, rigid pose that they could easily have passed for true quartz statues . . . except for their eyes, which twinkled in mischievousness as they took in the drenched thestral’s discomfit. “And to answer your question, Her Highness should be back within the hour. Would you like refreshment while you wait?”

“Thank you for the offer,” she demurred, “but Trixie does not want to impose or presume.”

At that, Crescent paused, and in the cool dimness of the hallway, he gazed again at her, his eyes now fully open. “Princess Twilight has specifically ordered that, whenever you visit, you are to be treated as an important guest. Not a supplicant, not a petitioner. But as an esteemed and valued friend. Therefore, I very much doubt that you could possibly impose or presume.”

Twilight could never recall a time that she’d left Princess Celestia feeling acrimony in her heart. Feeling scolded and disciplined, yes. Disappointed at times, too. But those had been very few and far between . . . and well‑deserved; Twilight might not have enjoyed the experiences, but she wouldn’t ever deny the propriety of them.

But, this time?

Twilight had literally stalked out of her old room, coldly furious, turning her back on Celestia and departing with the iciness of a scalpel slicing flesh. Somehow, she managed not to slam the door, but that had been difficult, a very close call indeed. There had been no goodbye, no curtsy —let alone a hug! She stormed through the hallways, anger rolling off her in palpable waves, purple eyes smoking with barely-suppressed fury, hooves thunderous against the stone floors.

No sooner had she reached a balcony than she had leapt into space, extending her wings and beginning the long, dynamic glide down to Ponyville. She could have simply teleported, winking to just above her castle . . . which is how she usually commuted between home and Canterlot. But she needed time to compose herself before she landed. Twilight had no wish for anypony home to see her this angry. They would be worried and concerned, and, with the best of intentions, would passively as well as actively nag and pester her in their misguided attempts to fix whatever had distressed their Princess.

Two conflicting loyalties battled within her. One was love of, and allegiance to, her Monarchs, Princesses Celestia, and Luna. The other was her own Royal obligations as Princess of Friendship. That duty was no mere window-dressing, not from the moment she accepted that Title. No, it was a compulsion.

And now it was personal, as well.

I need to stop dwelling on this, or I’ll wind up having to thermal about the Castle until morning!

Princess Celestia had, with a most unusual bluntness, told Twilight to stop looking into Trixie’s past. No more researching; no more interrogating teachers and schoolmates. That records Royally Sealed were done so for a reason. And, no, not even being the Princess of Friendship would change matters. If Trixie chooses to freely share things with you, that is one thing, Celestia had declared, But you will not pry, pester, or meddle with her. That is not a request, Twilight Sparkle; that is a Royal Command.

Twilight had tried reasoning and explaining; she’d quickly descended into outright begging and pleading. No, this was not some dispassionate, objective practice or mission. Twilight considered Trixie a friend, and knew something was deeply troubling her friend and she just wanted to help her. That was it; no ulterior motives at all.

She loved her mentor; she respected her as her teacher and friend; she owed allegiance to her as her liege Diarch. Intentionally disobeying a direct Royal Command had never, ever before entered her mind.

Until today.

Crescent had offered several possible destinations: informal dining room (should she wish refreshment); the solar (Crescent delicately shuddered; should she wish to relax); the gymnasium (should she wish to work out); the library (should she wish to read) ——

“The library will be fine,” she politely interrupted. Crescent nodded, and then started ambling along corridors, courteously leading. “May Trixie ask a question?”

“Of course!” he relied. “I will do my best to answer. And if I don’t know the answer I will find somepony that does.”

“Why are you up and awake? Is this not the middle of your ni . . . umm, well, sleep cycle?”

Crescent’s steps faltered for a moment before regaining equilibrium. “Well . . . ahh . . . you see . . .” Trixie was amazed seeing his fluffy, tufted ears glow a brilliant scarlet. Glancing left . . . right . . . up and down . . . the thestral finally gave Trixie a chagrined look. “I set an alarm to wake up, so I could set up a practical joke on the Day Guards.” Grinning more normally he chuckled, lightly twitching his still-damp coat. “It didn’t go well.”

His eyes widened when Trixie gravely replied, “Do the Day Guards taunt and ridicule you because you’re a thestral? Is that why the practical jokes?” That was the logical conclusion for Trixie, who, for years —especially these last few years— had been the frequent target of torment and malicious practical jokes.

“Oh no!” he immediately corrected. “We —Day Guards and Night Guards both— do it out of good-natured fun, and for the challenge. Besides,” he grinned wider, “it keeps us on our hooftips!” He grew silent a moment before speaking up. “Might I ask a question?”

“Of course,” Trixie replied.

“Ah . . . have you met thestrals before? I ask because you seem to be taking my appearance much more calmly than most ponies do.”

“Trixie stayed in Hollow Shades for several months.”

Crescent paused in mid-stride, hoof in the air, staring wide-eyed at the dainty unicorn next to him.

“And before you ask, yes, Trixie knew thestrals lived there before she visited,” she volunteered, completely calm. “But as Trixie has performed for ponies, and griffins, and yaks, should she not perform for thestrals as well? Why should Trixie look at you any differently, or treat you any differently, as she does any other intelligent creature?”

As Crescent opened the door to the library, and gestured for Trixie to enter, for the first time in his memory he simply could not find words to speak.

Having seen the Golden Oaks Library, Trixie was expecting something similar.

Hah!

Hooves making light tocks as she slowly pivoted, Trixie felt her jaw drop. While it wasn’t anywhere near as large as the Royal Canterlot Library, that wasn’t exactly surprising: there were no other libraries that came close to rivaling, let along matching, the Royal Canterlot Library. Having said that, however . . .

It felt easily the side of a small stadium, with full, three-hundred-and-sixty degree bookshelves against the cylindrical wall. Six bookshelves, as a matter of fact, with books virtually filling every available space. The incurving wall just before the ceiling was pierced by multiple windows, providing a reasonably shadow-free environment. There were multiple carrels and several floor-to-ceiling rolling ladders . . . for those without wings, she reasoned.

She’d never even managed to select a book to read, feeling as if a neck pouch full of dried breadcrumbs might be obligatory for exploring the library, when she heard the soft clicking of hooves from behind. “Hello Trixie!” Twilight chirped, a very pleased and excited expression on her face. “You’re looking much better! Did you rest well? How are you feeling?”

“It has been a somewhat busy morning,” Trixie hedged. “But Trixie is feeling better,” which was the truth, inasmuch as, compared to events of this morning, it was doubtful she could feel worse.

“So? What do you think?” Twilight asked as she came to a halt next to Trixie, gesturing with a forehoof to the library. From most anypony else —M.m.mother and her social peers instantly sprang to mind— Trixie would assume they would be fishing for compliments, or seeking to rub her muzzle in their wealth, power and possessions. But Trixie sensed that wasn’t at all behind Twilight’s question. Yes, she was pleased as punch with her library —and undoubtedly her castle as well— but who could blame her? Trixie certainly couldn’t. It felt more as if Twilight took a quiet pride in her library, and wanted to share that with Trixie. Not flaunt, but share.

Trixie slowly turned a complete circle, feeling her eyes blur as they filled. I used to love studying, and learning, and doing research, she sadly recalled. There were quite a few possible answers to the expectantly awaiting alicorn’s question that sprang to mind, but Trixie’s actual answer came from her heart. “Trixie is very impressed. She just isn’t sure where the lever is.”

“The lever?”

Trixie could hear the puzzlement in Twilight’s voice. “Yes, the lever,” she replied, utterly deadpan. “You know . . . the one they have to use to crowbar you out and back into the world?”

There came a series of wordless spluts and sputters, and then a bright, merry peal of laughter. Trixie looked over her shoulder to see Twilight dissolving into mirth. For a moment, gentle heat warmed her, before the iciness of failure and hopelessness, her twin and constant companions, smothered that warmth in its cradle. The same thing happened a second time, when Twilight, still chuckling, hugged Trixie in welcome.

“Honestly?” she admitted. “There’s more truth to that than I’m embarrassed to admit.” Twilight slowly gazed about, a raw hunger in her eyes. “I miss the freedom to simply study,” she softly murmured, expressing an honesty with Trixie that few other ponies were privy. A look of melancholy flashed for a moment across her face; closing her eyes tight, she took a slow, deep breath . . . held it a moment then slowly exhaled. “The Guard says that you wanted to see me?” she inquired.

Nodding, Trixie inquired, “Yes, Trixie does. If that is not too much trouble?”

“Not at all!” Twilight immediately avowed. “Do you mind if we talk in the dining room? I haven’t really eaten since this morning and, well . . .” she winced in recollection, “I sorta had my breakfast interrupted.”

When Trixie nodded in affirmation Twilight started walking. “Have you had lunch yet?

Twilight looked baffled; it sounded like Trixie had mumbled something about “custard”. “Come again?”

“No, Trixie hasn’t had lunch yet,” she replied, starting to hunch at what she was sure to come: being offered charity, a free meal.

Twilight caught that motion out of the corner of her eye and, with a sudden insight totally at odds with her usual social ineptitude, came to an abrupt stop before turning to face her friend. Trixie, taken totally by surprise, almost plowed into the now-stationary alicorn. “One thing that friends do,” she gently explained to the startled unicorn, “is sit down and share meals together. That isn’t charity, or largesse, or benevolence; not when it’s between friends.” Trixie felt herself falling into the compassionate purple depths of the Princess of Friendship’s eyes.

“O–o–ok,” Trixie weakly replied.

Twilight gently rubbed the side of her muzzle against Trixie’s. “Now come on!” she grinned. “I’m starving!”

Having seen the Library —honestly, after having now seen it, Trixie could not help but mentally capitalize it— she rather expected the same Palatial accommodations for the dining room. So she was rather surprised when Twilight guided her into a rather small, yet cozy, room instead. Gazing about in curiosity it quickly became readily apparent that this was, indeed, a dining room. The oval table, covered in fine, snowy linen, would seat no more than six —eight, perhaps, if they were really close friends— and, at the moment, had seats for four. There were a small buffet, sideboard, and hutch that obviously were part of a matched set, along with the table and chairs. It was elegantly yet tastefully decorated . . . there was no way Trixie could mistake that. It managed to successfully combine intimacy and privacy with informality and relaxation . . . and that was much much harder —and took a great deal more talent and expertize— to do than simply tossing bits all over the place and turning a room into an overblown monstrosity.

Trixie warily entered, unable to stop tensing, too many painful past experiences screaming at her in warning. Twilight gestured to a chair opposite hers as she settled in place, and then teasingly lifted a brow as Trixie just stood there. “This is where Spike and I —and my friends— eat. Or would you prefer the main banquet hall instead,” she kidded. “I’ll warn you though; we’ll need to use megaphones to talk to each other there.”

Heart hammering in atavistic dread Trixie finally took her seat. Twilight tipped her head to the side, one ear swiveled back, silently indicating a willingness to listen along with the understanding that she wasn’t prying or pushing; again, a totally foreign experience to the unsettled unicorn.

“I hope you don’t mind salad,” Twilight sheepishly said, while several earth ponies, dressed in immaculate white linens, silently swarmed inside, working briskly and efficiently as they set out cut lead tumblers before each, then filled them with icy cold spring water. Napkins were laid, chargers set out, flatware precisely set out . . .

Trixie could not help but admire the seemingly choreographed routine before her. In less than a minute, the table was fully set, water poured, salad tossed and served, and the servants vanished. “Trixie does not mind salad,” she admitted, then lifted a brow as Twilight grumped. “Trixie assumes that you do not?” she hazarded, while wondering why the alicorn, Mistress of her Castle, would be served something she disliked.

Munching on a bite Twilight swallowed then took a sip of water before answering. “It’s not that I dislike salad,” she began, then her face abruptly flamed, baffling Trixie to no end. Levitating a forkful up Trixie took her first bite . . . and felt her eyes round as the crispness and flavors blossomed in her mouth. Closing her eyes in bliss, Trixie slowly chewed, relishing the savory tastes.

Twilight smothered a grin, watching Trixie’s expression. No . . . no, she really didn’t dislike salads; how could anypony, when they were this delicious. No . . . no, the reason she wasn’t fond of them had nothing at all to do with their taste . . .

Twilight waited until they were halfway through their salads before speaking. “Was there something in particular you wanted to see me about?” Her heart started pounding, wondering if, just perhaps . . .

Half-formed dreams were dashed as Trixie answered. “Trixie needs supplies for the fireworks exhibition. She has spoken with everypony she needs supplies from, but they require payment up front.”

Nodding Twilight replied, “I’ll issue you a writ of credit. That should take care of that.” Pretending she didn’t see the shock on Trixie’s face at that, Twilight continued, “Do you need any other assistance, before, during, or after? Help with pre–show construction for instance, or crowd control and seating during?”

Trixie considered that in silence as she returned to eating, replying after a few mouthfuls. “Trixie could use help assembling the stages.”

“Umm . . . stages? As in, plural?”

“Yes. A small one for Trixie, from which to direct the fireworks. Another for where you, and Princess Luna, will be seated, as the Guest of Honor, and as the Hostess and Benefactor. Possibly a third, for the Element Bearers; Trixie hasn’t as yet decided on that as of yet.”

“Are you mad at me?” Twilight asked, her voice low, soft and hesitant.

Taking another forkful, Trixie gazed at Twilight. That . . . was a difficult question to answer. The former showmare had spent long, long months quashing every last remaining vestige of her aspiration —her intense, craving thirst and hunger— of being a performer. But that still whispered to her, day after day after day. It had never really left her, no matter how badly she’d tried.

And now Twilight was asking her to rip wide open that unhealed scab.

So . . . yes, Trixie was mad. Upset and angry and furious.

And absolutely, and utterly, terrified; terrified of what might happen should she perform once more.

Yet, Trixie could still clearly recall the longing in Princess Luna’s expression, as well as the deep pain and anguish there. And if Trixie, who barely knew the Moon Princess, could see and sense that, how much more intense was that for Twilight, whom was as close to Princess Luna as to be her (much, much younger) sister.

Swallowing the last bite of salad, Trixie blotted her lips and muzzle with the napkin. “No Twilight,” she quietly answered at last. “Trixie is not mad at you. It has just been a very intense, and draining, day so far.”

You can say that again, Twilight thought.

As silently as they’d set up, the servants flowed inside and, within seconds, it seemed, had refilled water tumblers, cleared the table, and then departed. “Was there anything else you needed?” Twilight asked.

“Actually, yes,” Trixie replied, and Twilight’s faced heated like the surface of Celestia’s sun, as her heart pounded in her chest, as her tummy butterfly–flip-flopped. “Trixie would finally like her questions answered . . .” and as her face flushed as hotly as Twilight’s, “and to see for herself how you look . . . after you’re “done.”