“You need to eat.”

Trixie jumped, startled at the low murmur alongside her. Head turning to the side, she saw Spike standing there, looking a bit concerned.

“If you don’t like that,” he poked a talon towards her plate; specifically the meal, which, now that Trixie thought about it, she’d been picking at, mostly just sliding the same forkful around and around. “I can make you something else.”

Drawing her head down, Trixie turtled in embarrassment, her cheeks flushing; they glowed even brighter when Spike, his voice understanding, confided, “She’s stayed overnight at Canterlot before. It’s nothing you did, OK?

Now she really hunched up, her ears now matching the crimson hue of her cheeks. Spike felt his insides twist at her expression. She was so frail, so vulnerable; nothing at all like the overly self-confident, brash, and audacious pony she’d once been . . . or he’d always believed she’d been. In many ways, he was realizing, Trixie had a great deal in common with Twilight Sparkle herself.

Then his heart swelled, as Trixie straightened a bit before sheepishly smiling at him. “Was Trixie that obvious?” she softly asked.

“We-ell,” he grinned back at her, before holding up a forepaw, two talontips barely touching . . . before spreading his arms as wide as possible. “Maybe this much.”

When Trixie softly giggled, Spike felt fit to burst. “Honestly, though,” he continued, growing serious, “if you really don’t like that, I can whip something else up for you.”

“Thank you, Spike, but Trixie doesn’t want to be a burden,” then, before Spike could respond —and remembering how the little dragon had reacted earlier when she’d said the very same thing— “Besides, it is very delicious. It is just that, well . . .” she turned back to pushing the forkful back and forth, “It’s just that Trixie has a lot on her mind.”

“Been there, seen that before,” he replied, grinning as he did. Growing serious again, he gently urged, “But, you really do need to eat.” Before Trixie could react, he bluntly stated, “Yep. I’m nagging. And I nag Twilight, too. So don’t think I’m just singling you out for “special treatment”. Like I said: seen that before. You and Twilight both,” he good-naturedly snorted. “Once you get your head into researching something . . .” he mock-sadly shook his head, eyes twinkling as Trixie flushed again, but, this time, with a little grin, to which Spike responded with one of his own.

That grin faded, however, replaced by somberness, as a small paw reached up and gently clasped the pouch at his neck. “I’ve been meaning to say something to you, Trixie,” he began, his voice soft yet determined. “Well, two things, actually. And I’m sorry that it’s taken me this long to say them. Part of it’s because it’s been a bit, well . . . busy, lately. And the other is . . .” Spike trailed off, complex and intense emotions flicked across his face as he paused.

As he looked directly into her eyes, Trixie felt a wash of astonishment at Spike’s expression, for it belonged to a much older dragon than the little one before her. “The other is,” he repeated, his voice thick and rasping, “that just saying ‘Thank you’,” he gripped the pouch holding the blue star diamond even tighter, “just seems, well, lame. But I . . . I don’t know what else to say. Part of me wants to say ‘Thank you Trixie. You don’t know how much this —and the fireworks for me— means to me’. The thing is, though,” and his eyes gleamed even brighter, “you had, and have, to know that. Otherwise, you couldn’t have chosen to do them.”

Trixie felt her face grow warm. She started ducking her head again, but she forced herself to keep her eyes on his, not wishing to appear dismissive or unappreciative.

“The other is,” he continued, “that I’m sorry. For everything. And, again, that seems so lame just saying that. But it’s still true. I can’t change the past, but I hope you can forgive me. And I hope to prove worthy of being your friend.”

Trixie’s vision blurred as tears filled her eyes. Her throat felt thick as a lump formed. Then she giggled as Spike, still in that solemn voice, “And if you clean your plate, you can have dessert.”

The doorknob softly gleamed light blue for a moment, as the knob turned and the door opened. “How may I hel——,” Twilight Velvet gasped. “Twilight! This was unexpected! How have you been?” Stepping outside, Mrs. Sparkle fiercely hugged her daughter. “What a wonderful surprise!” she gushed. “Come on in, come on in!” she broadly smiled, suiting actions to words, leading the way back inside. “I’m afraid your father isn’t home at the moment, but he should . . . be . . . Twilight? What’s wrong?” Mrs. Sparkle closed the door behind them as they paced into the foyer, abruptly concerned upon spying the tell-tale signs —she was Twilight’s mother, after all— on her daughter’s face.

Her look of concern flashed into instant dread and alarm as Twilight stood there, legs starting to tremble as her composure crumpled. “Oh Mom!” she cried out, flinging herself into her mother’s embrace as she burst into wordless sobs.

Quite a few hoofkerchiefs later, along with a large mug of chamomile —which definitely indicated the depths of her daughter’s distress, as Twilight normally loathed chamomile tea— Twilight finally was down to just sniffling now and then, sitting curled up on the couch and leaning into her embrace. Mrs. Sparkle just held her daughter, not saying a word, just holding her close and tight, stroking her mane and gently rocking her.

Although she was hiding it well, Twilight’s mother was seriously worried. She’d never seen her daughter this deeply grieving. Had something happened to Spike? To one of her friends? She hadn’t a clue, but, as concerned as she was, she was willing to sit there in silence for as long as it took for her daughter to regain her composure and begin getting whatever-it-was off of her chest.

Tremulously smiling up at her mother, Twilight’s lower lip quivered as she asked, “Mom? Could . . . could I have something other than . . . this? Please?”, “This” being the tea she was drinking, wrinkling her nose as she, for emphasis, outlined her mug in a pink aura.

“Oh course, sweetheart,” Mrs. Sparkle smiled. “Do you have a particular preference?”

“Coffee? If that isn’t too much trouble?”

“Not at all. I just need to brew a pot. Will you be alright if I leave you here for a few minutes?” she asked as she rose up, pacing into the kitchen once Twilight had silently nodded.

Pouring the steamy, fragrant brew into the mugs on the coffee table in front of the couch, Mrs. Sparkle then set the pot down before reseating herself. The next few minutes were spent in companionable silence as each mare fixed their coffee to suit their individual preferences. Leaning back into the couch once finished, their mugs floated just in front of them as they sipped. Another few minutes passed, and then, with a deep, composing sigh . . .

“I . . . I have this . . . this friend,” Twilight began.

Mrs. Sparkle perked up, marefully keeping her ears from swiveling forwards. As any confidant could tell you, “I have ‘a friend’” almost always meant “I”. For instance, I have a friend at school, who has this crush on somepony usually meant I have a crush on somepony at school. And so, her first, near-instantaneous reaction, was thinking the same thing. But, a heartbeat later, Mrs. Sparkle instinctively sensed that, no, this time, her daughter wasn’t speaking about some hypothetical acquaintance; she was talking about a real pony.

“I met her a couple of years ago. It . . . it didn’t go well. It’s not that anything bad happened between us. Just the circumstances at the time didn’t go well for her.”

Mrs. Sparkle’s brows rose for just an instant at that particular personal pronoun.

“Life . . . well, life hasn’t been really fair to her.” Mrs. Sparkle was surprised at the flash of true anger that flared in her daughter’s expression at that. “Most everypony took a dislike to her, and I’ve never understood why. But she’s somepony I’ve always found intriguing. Somepony I’ve always wanted to get to know better. She’s strong and courageous and brave. Smart and clever and witty. She’s somepony I can just be relaxed with. You know?” Twilight took another sip of coffee, her gaze unfocused as she stared into the depths of the dark brew, so she didn’t see the look of dawning wonderment on her mother’s face.

Twilight Velvet loved her daughter. For a while there, when she was away at school, her daughter’s devotion may have transferred from parents to Princess Celestia, but Night Light and Twilight Velvet’s heart had never dimmed towards their daughter. So she was amazed at her daughter’s behavior: Twilight had never sounded this . . . intense, about anypony else. Now, academia? Oh stars above, yes! But anything intimate, like a friend?

Her expression, Mrs. Sparkle realized, was tender; wistfully so, her heart worn on her sleeve for the world to see. She concealed a soft smile behind her mug as she sipped. If only Cadance could see this! she mentally grinned. Princess Mi Amore Cadenza would be squeeing in delight, clapping forehooves together in glee. Oh, how Twilight’s dear friend, and former foalsitter, had always despaired of her charge ever finding love!

For, although her daughter hadn’t come right out and said so, Mrs. Sparkle had the feeling that Twilight’s friendship was a bit more affectionate than were any of her other relationships. Perhaps not quite true love, true enough. But, after a famine, any meal would seem a feast!

However, any desire to smile, mentally or otherwise, faded as Twilight continued.

“She . . . she’s made a few poor choices in her life. Understandable ones, I think, given what I know about things. But poor choices nonetheless.” Mrs. Sparkle’s heart started dropping as her daughter’s face began to crumple, as her voice started quavering. “One of those times, she . . . she used something. Something bad. And . . . and . . .” Tears filled her eyes, then beaded up . . . then started spilling down her cheeks. Her throat tightened so badly that her voice rasped, difficult to understand, then closed up to the point that she couldn’t even speak. Her shoulders started jerking as she struggled to suppress sobs.

And, when her mother just scooped her against her chest, cradling her between her forelegs, Twilight started sobbing again, burying her face against the comfort of her mother.

“So, even though she willingly removed it, and even later, shunned and regretted using it, the magic is still within her?”

It was a good two hours later, and the two of them were now sitting at the dining room table, a small plate containing the crumbs of what remained of several, small, hoof sandwiches between them. A fresh pot of coffee had been brewed, and several hoofkerchiefs had been necessary for “damage repair”. Her daughter’s emotions were still raw and tumultuous, but, for now, the erosion of racking sobs had smoothed the worst edges.

“It’s even worse than that, Mom,” Twilight clarified. “If I understand it right” —which, as far as Mrs. Sparkle was concerned, meant it was absolute fact— “it’s not a matter of the wearer utilizing the magic of an object, like how almost all artifacts operate. Instead, it’s almost like a pact: putting the Alicorn Amulet on is, in and of itself, perfectly harmless and safe. But the moment the wearer uses it, it’s as if they’ve signed a binding contract, as if they’ve consented to have the Amulet’s magic possess them.”

Mrs. Sparkle shuddered. “Possess?” she repeated; not questioning, simply seeking assurance that she’d heard, and understood, correctly.

“Yeah. I’m afraid so,” Twilight numbly admitted. “It’s not strong enough to do so right out of the gate. Which is why, I believe, that it’s always been described as “corrupting”: because it’s taken time to, well, metamorphose, its wearer.” Taking a swallow of coffee, she continued. “But it’s not so much corrupting, as much as it is replacing. It seems to, little bits at a time, thread tendrils of itself into its wearer, each and every time it is used, dissolving and destroying as it goes. Until, if it is used often enough, and long enough, that its power becomes a permanent part of its user . . . whether or not the user is still wearing it or not anymore.”

“Permanent?” Mrs. Sparkle again repeated. “Can’t it be dispelled? Expelled? Reversed?”

Sadly shaking her head, “I don’t think so Mom. That corrupting part? It’s as if the Amulet etches into the innate magics of its wearer, and then moves itself into there. And once it does, it’s become a natural part of their being. As natural as breathing. Yeah . . . yeah, it probably could be excised . . . but what it corrupted and replaced is just . . . gone. Imagine if half your body was destroyed, one cell at a time, and instantly replaced by . . . that. What would happen when those cursed cells were removed? The old ones are just, well, gone. There’s nothing left to replace them with.”

Wiping her nose with the back of a hoof, Twilight sniffled. “And if that’s not bad enough, once a user reaches a certain threshold, it’s too late. Even casting the Amulet aside won’t change anything. Once it’s taken a deep enough hold, it just keeps spreading and growing, consuming more and more.”

Tears started flowing thick and fast again. “Trixie’s not going to just die, Mom,” she softly sobbed. “It’s going to consume and destroy her soul, too.”

She missed her wagon.

That might sound astonishing. The guest suite Twilight had assigned her maintained a consistent, and comfortable, temperature. There were no drafts, no wind whistling in past small cracks; no creaks as boards shifted as the temperatures changed. Her bathroom was, well, a bathroom, and one with all the amenities anypony could desire —well, most anypony, anyway; there would always be those decadent and hedonistic enough that nothing would truly satisfy them. And considering it was already, ah . . . brisk outside, and would soon be frigid as the seasons progressed, not having to make mad dashes in the middle of the night outside and over to the shrubbery when nature called was an undeniable plus. Even so . . .

It was her wagon. However . . .

Beneath the thick, downy comforter, Trixie softly sighed. Perhaps it is time that Trixie gave up her wagon. Trixie had always intended using her wagon —she mentally winced and stifled a sniffle, as she recalled the tragic, heartrending loss of her original wagon— for her performances, and she teared up, recalling how her current one had come into her possession. Trixie had never even learned his name, she wretchedly remembered, wallowing so deeply in misery at the time, that something as kind and courteous as asking that old prospector his name had never even occurred to her. Did Trixie even thank him? She couldn’t remember. There were so many things she couldn’t remember. Her life, at times, felt like a moth-eaten old book, with spots after spots of consumed holes.

But, if Trixie no longer performs . . . does she really need a traveling wagon?

Like her detested, despised cutie mark, her wagon —her sanctuary, her home— was a constant reminder of her bitter loss, albeit to a much lesser degree. Trixie hadn’t, after all, ever performed her acts while in possession of this wagon. In many ways, her wagon was a physical embodiment of her hopes and dreams: much promise, but shabby and run-down, and with no fulfillment.

“I wanted to have you fully in my power, and helplessly under my control again.”

Already struggling to fall asleep, remembering Twilight’s words —and, not just her words, but also the fiery, hungry eyes that had transfixed Trixie— had Trixie feeling just as lightheaded, just as dizzy, as it had yesterday afternoon. She restlessly kicked the heavy comforter off; as warm as she was now feeling, she certainly didn’t need a comforter!

Sleep was a long time coming for her that night.

Stretched out on his back, Night Light slid a foreleg behind his wife, who lay tucked up against his side, her head resting on his chest. “Is she going to be alright?” he softly murmured, gently lipping her mane as he cuddled her.

“Honestly?” she just-as-softly murmured back. “I don’t know.” Softly sighing, she burrowed closer, relaxing in her husband’s warmth and scent. “I think she’s finally fallen for somepony —maybe even her special somepony— only to learn, within a week or two of that, that her friend is living on borrowed time. And there isn’t a single thing anypony can do about it.”

“Not even Princess Celestia?” His brows beetled, feeling Twilight Velvet grow still and tensed. As curious —and concerned, too— as he was, he patiently waited while his love sorted out her thoughts. Besides . . . he softly smiled, lipping her mane again . . . it’s not as if he minded snuggling her as he waited!

Nibbling her lower lip, thoughtfully worrying it as part of this afternoon’s conversation replayed in her mind, Twilight Velvet considered the best way of answering her husband. Hiding anything from him never even entered her mind. “Twilight’s upset, for some reason, with Princess Celestia,” she finally said. “I think they might even have had a falling out.”

That . . . might very well be an understatement, she thought, clearly recalling the fury in her daughter’s eyes when she’d asked the very same question of her. Anger had smoked off her daughter as she’d answered what had seemed like a logical, and innocent, question, each word venomously spit as if Twilight had been biting nails off an iron bar. Celestia has ordered me —as in issuing a Royal Command— to not, and I quote, ‘pry, pester, or meddle with her. That is not a request, Twilight Sparkle; that is a Royal Command’, unquote. ‘Her’, being Trixie. My friend. Mind you, if I thought Celestia could actually do something to help her . . . Her daughter had actually growled at that point!

Night Light’s eyes widened at that. Never, in his entire life, would he have ever imagined his daughter quarrelling with Princess Celestia! But, while he might not be able to imagine that, he also wasn’t about to question what his wife had perceived. Feeling helpless —a feeling that devastated any true, loving parent— he quietly asked, “Is there anything we can do?”

Shifting her head, Twilight Velvet tenderly nuzzled the side of her husband’s neck. Deeply sighing, she wriggled closer, feeling him tighten his embrace as she did. “Just be there for her,” she murmured. “Just . . . be there for her.”

Twilight gazed out the open window, chin resting on forelegs crossed atop the open sill. At the moment, she had no more tears to spill. She badly wanted to be home, back in Ponyville. (As much as she —once more— loved her parents, she’d been away from their home far more years than she’d lived there; she always felt more of a guest whenever she visited, so their home never really felt like home to Twilight) But if she went home as she was, with her emotions raw and bleeding, everypony would know something was terribly wrong.

That would include Trixie.

Rubbing swollen eyes with the back of her hoof, Twilight mentally acknowledged being awful at dissembling, let alone outright lying. Granted, that didn’t always dissuade her from the attempt. But, on those rare times she’d tried —and miserably failed— at fibbing, her friends generally just twitted her about it later on.

That wouldn’t work with Trixie, she knew. Trixie was too fragile, too brittle. There was no way she’d miss seeing that something was badly bothering Twilight. So either she wouldn’t ask, resulting in her sinking deeper into despair and self-loathing, absolutely positive that, somehow, she’d just failed again, or she would ask, resulting in the same conclusion, with Twilight’s attempts at prevarication serving as proof.

Su—— Moon and Stars! she vowed. I am not giving up! No, there might not be an answer; she made herself face that painful, unpalatable truth. But I am not giving up! Not until—— she choked back a sob, unable to deny, or forget, how that train of thought had concluded: Not until she dies.

I hurt so bad! she cried out, deep inside. And the pony she had always counted on for support, had betrayed her. Betrayed her trust; crushed her hopes.

The thick, overhead, cloud cover parted a moment, and Twilight blinked as an argent shaft glinted down from above. Breath catching in her throat, Twilight closed her eyes, braced her legs, took a deep breath . . .

Sister! I . . . hurt. Please . . . help me?

“Eeep!”

Trixie jumped as a talon poked her flank. “Wha——?”

Catching sight of Spike’s eyes —well, his whole expression— Trixie found herself swallowing, especially when the little dragon —who, at the moment, was looking quite imposingly stern— flicked his snout at the plate and cup sitting atop one of the two desks. It didn’t help any when her stomach suddenly, and quite audibly, rumbled.

“I probably shouldn’t have —no, scratch that,” he amended, “I definitely shouldn’t have let you skip lunch . . . which, I’d like to point out, had been sitting there,” a talon helpfully pointed out where dinner now sat, “for the last few hours. Don’t make me drag out the big guns to make you eat,” he warned.

Giving her a couple of seconds to be puzzled, Spike then dropped to his knees, clasped forepaws together against his chest and under his chin, then just . . . stared up at Trixie, his eyes suddenly huge, actually glistening with unshed tears as his lower lip quivered. “Won’t you please eat?” His voice sounded weak, quivering with forlorn pleading.

Trixie fell out of her chair.

She laughed. Laughed as she hadn’t done in . . . she really and truly couldn’t ever remember laughing like this! She laughed until tears streamed down her face, until she wheezed, clutching her ribs. “S-s-stop!” she sputtered. “T-t-trixie . . . T-trixie s-s-surrenders!”

An enormous grin spread across Spike’s face. Rising up onto one knee, he fist-pumped. “Score!”

That only set Trixie back off again, as she wound up on her back, legs gleefully kicking.

“OK, OK. Spike the Merciful shall relent.”

“Hooooo!” Trixie finally gusted, feebly getting to her hooves . . . then freezing as Spike tapped a toe talon. “A-hem!”

Weakly smiling, Trixie turned away from her study desk —where she had been headed— and sat down where her dinner was waiting.

“Just peckish, huh.”

Cheeks softly blushing, Trixie shyly ducked her head a little. There may have been a crumb on her plate; there certainly weren’t two. Once she’d started, after that first bite, it was like stoking a furnace.

“I’m sorry, Spike.”

“Sorry?” As he started cleaning up, Spike gave her a puzzled look. “Sorry for what?

“Trixie was very hungry, after all,” she admitted.

“What’s to apologize about that?”

“Trixie sort of just shoveled it in,” she quietly admitted. “She didn’t take the time to appreciate your hard work, or how delicious it was.”

Tipping his head to the side, Spike gravely regarded her. That seemed to be an odd thing to apologize for, he thought, but, then again, it felt good to have somepony feel that strongly about his cooking . . . or the work involved in that. Meals just didn’t make themselves, after all! And, while it was true that Friendship Rainbow Kingdom Castle had its own kitchen, and kitchen staff . . . Spike still enjoyed cooking for Twilight.

And now, for Trixie, as well.

“We-ell,” he drawled, at first alarming, then amusing her. “I suppose somepony’s been good enough to earn dessert!”

“Trixie is going to get a pot belly if she keeps eating like this,” she groused . . . even as she spooned out another bite of the hot fudge sundae.

Chuckling, Spike started neatening Trixie’s work area as she worked her way through the rich dessert. “Well, if you do,” he grinned, “I understand we do have a nice gym here . . . somewhere,” he grumbled. They were still discovering odd, little —and not always so “little”, either— rooms here and there. Spike sometimes wondered if the Castle simply sprouted them as needed! “Whatcha working on?” he asked as he worked, simply curious. Whatever it was, Trixie had started at the crack of dawn, trotting off as soon as she’d finished breakfast, and had been working all day without a break . . . or lunch.

“Trixie is researching pegasi,” she mumbled around a mouthful of vanilla bean ice cream.

“Anything in particular? This is a pretty big Library. I’ll admit Twilight knows where everything is shelved, but I’m no slouch at that. It’s easy to overlook publications, especially with the odd way Twilight has of cataloguing things.”

“Trixie isn’t sure there exists a book that covers her exact question,” she confided. “But, if you could help, Trixie would be indebted.”

“So what is the “exact question?”

“How do pegasi fly?”

Spike stilled, feeling a spurt of dread. “Ah . . . I’m guessing the obvious answer of “with wings” isn’t it?”

Setting her spoon down, Trixie shifted in her chair before gazing at Spike. He sensed the wheels inside her head spinning and whirring, an expression he was very used to seeing with Twilight. Finally, she gave a tiny, almost unseen, nod.

“Trixie has absolutely no doubt that wiser and smarter, more talented and skilled, minds than hers has already exhausted every possibility,” she quietly remarked. “So she doesn’t expect to —if you’ll pardon the expression— “pull a rabbit out of her hat”.” For a moment a look of utter longing, and tragedy, flickered across her face. “But Trixie also could not live with herself if she didn’t, at least, try.”

“Try . . . what?” he softly asked, not that he really needed to do so, he realized.

“Try and figure out why Scootaloo cannot fly . . . and what, if anything, can be done about that.”

Even with Princess Luna’s help, Twilight had had a very restless and unrefreshing night. Had Luna not silently ghosted inside her room, had she not spent an hour with her sister-in-all-but-birth, Twilight doubted she would have slept at all. Her presence there had somewhat eased Twilight’s grief, but it was what she had said at the end, before she —with regrets, but duty still called— returned to Canterlot Castle, that had truly helped her.

Gazing very deeply into Twilight’s eyes, Luna had just stood there for about a minute, as Twilight felt the oddest sense of . . . weight. And then . . .

“Twilight Sparkle: my sister never gave up hope, not for one thousand years. You have but, as yet, born your sorrow for a day. Have faith, dear sib. For with faith there is hope. And as Celestia had you . . . so does Trixie Lulamoon.”

She relented enough the next morning to have breakfast with her parents, but that was all the time she was willing to yield. Minutes after hugging them goodbye, Twilight was back, once again, at the Canterlot Library.

Morning to noon, noon to afternoon, afternoon to evening; without a pause or break Twilight diligently tore through volume after tome, encyclopedia after monograph. It was only when she’d thumped her head on the floor because she’d fallen asleep and slid out of her chair that she’d, with extreme reluctance, called it a day.

She wisely chose trot back to her parents’ home, instead of flying there. Her old quarters in the Royal Wing were, of course, much closer.

And so was Princess Celestia; much closer, that is, had she chosen to crash there.

Quietly creeping inside, Twilight tried tiphoofing to her room, but was so sleepy her vision was blurred and her balance wobbly. Somehow making it to her old room, she closed the door before just flopping onto the bed.

Before she actually sprawled, she peripherally noticed something. Lighting up her horn, Twilight’s heart gave a thump.

Sitting on her night stand, protected by a preservation spell . . . was a plate of chocolate-chip and pine nut cookies, and a glass of milk.

Feeling as if every eye was upon her, Trixie slow-trotted south, skirting the edge of Ponyville, a small wicker basket hovering over her croup. The basket was just big enough to hold her cloak and hat, the bundled fabric noticeable but not obviously so.

Which was rather important.

Last evening had been . . . interesting. No sooner had Trixie explained what she was researching, and why, Spike had looked as if he’d just swallowed a toad . . . and it was swimming back upstream. But, that expression had been fleeting. He’d looked very intently at her, but in the end had only quietly asked her if she’d said anything to Scootaloo.

There was no way Trixie would say anything to Scootaloo. How cruel that would be to get her hopes up once again, only to have that come crashing down around her ears. Trixie certainly knew how that felt!

Besides, she’d explained, who was she to compare herself to the likes of Princess Twilight? If she couldn’t find an answer, what chance did Trixie have? So when Spike asked her, in complete seriousness and clear curiosity, why she was willing to spends hours, or days, wearing herself threadbare for a hopeless cause, Trixie had, once again, simply said, Trixie has to, Spike. Here she exists, and she can do no other.

Although Spike had, once again, offered Trixie the hospitality of Friendship Rainbow Kingdom Castle, her earlier thoughts about her wagon had stoked a sense of nostalgia inside her. Trixie had never been this long away from her wagon, and while she didn’t think it had spontaneously combusted . . .

Luna’s moon had been high overhead, and the air chill enough that her breath frosted out in twin plumes, by the time she had arrived at her clearing. And, as she had, yes, Trixie had felt a small lump in her throat as the sensation of “home” had throbbed inside.

It had been as brisk inside as out, so the first thing Trixie had done was fire up, then stoke, her small ceramic stove. While that had been busily —and slowly!— radiating warmth, Trixie had lit a few of the interior lanterns before slowly looking around. She’d never “repaired” the interior after dispelling everything during that brunch——was it just ten days ago? Slowly, so slowly, she’d paced back and forth, lightly touching a torn curtain there, peeling paint here. Beneath her hooves the wagon had creaked with the shifting of her weight.

The hour had been late, and it had been too chilly, for her to have wasted any time doing anything other than quickly climbing into bed and pulling the covers over her. Shabby it might be, yes, but it was her home. Her breath might have still been pluming, and as the wagon had slowly warmed the boards might have been groaning, but she’d just contentedly wriggled, feeling a gentle peace embrace her.

Trixie had had a lot to think about, and so quite a few thoughts had drifted in and out of her drowsy mind as she’d started drifting away.

A lot to think about.

A lot to——

Trixie’s eyes had flown wide open as several particular thoughts had suddenly condensed into a whole. Suddenly she had felt as if her little ceramic stove was a roaring kiln, because she’d gotten very warm and flushed.

Sleep was a bit more difficult to achieve after that.

And so, here she was, wending her way through the early morning dew, balancing a fine act between staying far enough to the outskirts as to run into as few ponies as possible, without being obvious about that. Sometimes trying to be surreptitious and discreet wound up doing the exact opposite!

It didn’t help, not one little bit, that her destination lay about as far south as it was possible to travel and still remain in Ponyville!

All too soon —or far too fast— Trixie found herself at the front door of Carousel Boutique. Her insides were jittery, jumping as if she’d eaten a toad similar to the one that Spike had consumed last evening. It wasn’t simply because of what she would be inquiring about . . .

. . . as much as it was whom Carousel Boutique’s proprietor was.

Rarity.

To say that Trixie and Rarity had a “history” would be a humongous understatement. It had started several years ago, during Trixie’s first visit to Ponyville. As part of her show, Trixie had proclaimed herself as “the most magical unicorn in all of Equestria”. Needless to say, Twilight’s friends —who truly knew the most magical— had openly scoffed and sneered, whereupon Trixie had issued the challenge of seeing who was better. Rarity, along with Rainbow Dash and Applejack, had taken up Trixie’s challenge, and, well . . .

Trixie cringed, wincing in recollection. Yes, it was true that she had bested those three —at their own game, and at their best strengths, too. But she’d done so by humiliating them in the process . . .

. . . exactly as M-mother would have done.

Standing outside the diamond-windowed double doors of Carousel Boutique, forehoof rose as if to knock, Trixie froze. What was Trixie thinking? Rarity will slam the door in Trixie’s face as soon as she sees who it is! Or she will scream and yell, and everypony will just stare at and sneer at Trixie. Or she will laugh at Trixie’s request. Or . . . Or . . . Or . . .

“You are planning on knocking at some point today, aren’t you, darling?”

Trixie’s eyes were enormous saucers, as, standing behind the now-opened upper door, an amused-looking unicorn gazed out at her.

Rarity.

“Now, that wasn’t hard at all, was it?” Rarity smiled as she ushered a trembling Trixie inside. “I’m not going to bite, you know,” she softly said, more seriously, finally realizing just how distressed Trixie was. Trixie started to say something, but, before she could, Rarity held up an expertly-hooficured hoof.

“Before we go any further, darling, there’s something I need to say.” Rarity was shocked, seeing Trixie cringe, almost folding in on herself. Gracious goodness! she thought. I don’t ever remember seeing her like this! Howsoever did I miss seeing this?

“Actually, before I say what I need to say . . . has Twilight ever told you what she said to us, after your first visit?” When Trixie, hesitantly and guardedly, nodded, Rarity much more firmly and decisively, then nodded as well. “Good! Because, you know . . .” Reaching out, Rarity gently rested a forehoof on Trixie’s shoulder as she gazed openly and warmly into her eyes, “She was absolutely right.”

As Trixie’s eyes rounded, Rarity continued, “Now, as for what I need to say,” and there was no pause, no hesitation, “it is the same thing I told Twilight several nights ago: while I can’t change the past, it’s also not water under the bridge. I can’t, and won’t, pretend it never happened and just sweep it under the rug. And by “it”,” she hastily clarified, seeing Trixie start tensing all over again, “I mean how I treated you. Which was badly. Very badly, in fact. Applejack and Rainbow Dash feel the same way. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t hear from them soon.”

Gently ushering Trixie over towards the coffee table, Rarity glanced at the wicker basket still hovering over Trixie’s croup. “Window dressing, I presume?”

Blinking in confusion at the apparent non sequitur, suddenly Trixie blushed. “Was Trixie that obvious?” she softly asked.

Elegantly waving a forehoof, Rarity airily dismissed that notion. “Only to me, darling. But, after all, fashion is my life,” she warmly smiled. “Those,” she motioned to the bundled cloak and hat, “are clearly clean, and well-maintained. And, most likely, made by you. Yes?”

When Trixie simply nodded, Rarity smiled and continued. “So. Since there’s no real reason to bring those to me, then they must have served a different purpose. Thus the “window dressing”. Or would “Smoke and Mirrors” be more apropos?”

Shyly smiling, Trixie slowly started relaxing, watching and listening as Rarity quietly fussed about, making tea and serving it while just making small talk. There was no comparison between here, and any shop M-mother would have frequented.

Carousel Boutique was ever so much better.

“So,” Rarity set her teacup down on its saucer. “Down to business I suppose. How may I be of help?”

She felt her brows lift as Trixie’s face abruptly flamed, as her tongue nervously swiped her lips, as ears flicked back and forth, unable to settle.

“Tr-Trixie does not have the bits to purchase anything right this minute,” she nervously got out. “A-and she . . . she doesn’t even know if you can make anything like t-this . . . or would want to,” she got out, as she nervously washed forehooves together up next to her chest. “S-so t-this is more of an inquiry?”

Her curiosity rising by the second, Rarity’s mind started already imagining what had so obviously piqued Trixie’s desire. “Very well, darling. But,” she smiled, to assure Trixie that she was teasing and not chiding, “it would be helpful if I knew what it was you were interested in.”

She was so very obviously bracing herself. What in the world? Rarity wondered. Then her eyes rounded, as Trixie leaned forward . . . and whispered in Rarity’s ear. And then, once having done so, Trixie slumped back in her chair, looking for all the world as if she fully expected to be mocked and humiliated.

Oh! Oh my! Rarity’s eyes sparkled and gleamed, so taken by the concept that she totally overlooked certain aspects of the request. But, then suddenly some things clicked, with an almost audible sound, Scrutinizing Trixie, almost appraising, she watched as her blush slowly spread from cheeks, to ears and throat as well.

Rising, Rarity held down a forehoof, making a “come along” gesture. “Come with me, darling, to my studio. I’ve a few more questions that need answering, and, ah . . . some “refinements” you might wish to consider.”

“B-b-but Trixie doesn’t have the bits for anything!”

“It’s an interesting enough, and intriguing enough, project, that I’m willing to do it at cost. Not free, mind you,” she cautioned. For almost anypony else, she would have freely offered it, but Rarity knew about —and completely empathized with— Trixie’s resistance to outright charity. “And if you do agree to the sum, I’m quite willing to extend you credit for the cost. Which,” she teasingly chided, nudging the balking unicorn towards the studio, “I can’t begin to calculate until I properly measure and model you, darling”