“Mail's here!”

Balancing a double clawful of mail in a stack almost as tall as he was, Spike only had a moment to look up as he entered the small, informal dining room where Princess Twilight Sparkle had been sitting down to a late breakfast before . . .

“Aaaaah!!”

foomp!

Envelopes, scrolls, brochures, broadsheets . . . they all went flying, blossoming in a huge cloud as Twilight catapulted into the little dragon in her eagerness, the impact tossing him in the air in a smooth, shrieking arc.

“Mail? Mail? Lemmesee lemmeesee!”

“No. No. Nope. No. No . . .”

Each aforementioned envelope, scroll, brochure, and broadsheet was hastily levitated up, scrutinized for an instant then discarded, tossed to the side, reducing the clutter surrounding her as she constructed a (reasonably) neat pile of rejects. And as each one was looked at then summarily dismissed with a 'no' her excited voice grew more and more dejected until, with a truly discouraged and despondent sigh, the last one was reviewed, then cast aside to crown the paper pinnacle. Turning about she trudged back to her thrown back and tipped over chair, head drooping, horn pointed at the floor.

It had been four days now since she'd last seen Trixie Lulamoon, and Twilight had been in a swivet ever since.

Setting the chair back up in place she sat back down, dejectedly sighing as she levitated the untidy —and unstable—pile of mail back over, pushing her half-eaten breakfast back out of the way before depositing the postal deliveries in a cluttered heap in front of her.

“Jeez Twilight,” Spike grumbled as he rooted around on all fours after a couple of escapees under the sideboard, “What's gotten into you lately? It's just mail. The same old nonsense you've been getting for ages now.”

Morosely she nodded, cheerlessly shifting the various pieces about with her hoof. “Same old nonsense” pretty much bucked the tree on its trunk she thought. It was truly amazing the vast increase in correspondence that had occurred simultaneous with her elevation to the rarefied social strata of “Princess”. And it was just as stunning how vapid most of that increase had become, too.

The vast majority were easily sorted into a single heap consisting of invitations: to balls, banquets, soirees, high teas, brunches, receptions, fund raisers, grand openings . . . ad nauseum. Twilight cringed, knowing for a fact that Princess Celestia dealt with the same, but on a scale a hundred, if not a thousand, times worse than she was dealing with.

She paused a moment before dragging one of them back. As mopey as she was feeling she couldn't help but smile at the crayon printed pasteboard inviting “Princes Twilite Sparkel” to a cute-ceañera. She smiled even warmer as she read further, since it wasn't the inviter's party but was, instead, her older sister's celebration. That one, she thought as she carefully set it to the side, was one she might very well accept.

She couldn't turn them all down, after all; as a Princess she did have social obligations she simply couldn't ignore, yet she had to be very careful about which ones she did accept. One of the (many) things that her former teacher —and mentor still, a fact that continually deeply touched her— had taught her was that it was a delicate balance to be walked regarding social events. If a pony wasn't careful, accepting invitations carte blanche was very much like the proverbial crack in a dam: the leak would start with a trickle but, faster than you could believe, that tiny trickle could change to a raging torrent, virtually impossible to stop without causing injured feelings.

Especially where it came to the aristocracy and nobility. There was an additional danger there, because they were quick to take offense and feel a snub, whether intentional or not. Having a Princess attend an event could very well be the social plum prize of the year and, for some, of their entire life. A courtier's position could be made by an acceptance . . . or broken by a refusal.

Heaving a deep sigh Twilight rested her chin on her hooves. Her expertly hooficured hooves. Even she couldn't mess them up in only four days! Her chest felt tight, remembering why they looked so good.

Four very long days.

Had she made a mistake? Was she the one that was supposed to have extended the invitation? Was Trixie anxiously waiting for Twilight to initiate things? Her mouth dried like sand, and she quickly pulled the pitcher of orange juice over and refilled her glass. She'd thought she'd been perfectly clear about things, that she was leaving it up to Trixie whether or not she wanted to ever speak with, or see, Twilight again. But what if she was hesitant about that? Or, worse, thought that it would be importunate to ask a Princess to come and pay her a visit?

Why can't life be more like differential calculus or advanced multidimensional translocation? she gloomily thought. Easy and predictable!

Twilight was feeling more than simply glum and despondent, she was feeling quite sick to her stomach as well, a sensation that had grown the stronger as the days had passed without any communication at all.

Did I mess up . . . again? she worried. Did she change her mind about meeting? Did she really ever want to see me again? Did I say something wrong or misleading? Is she expecting me to have invited her, instead? Did she— Twilight swallowed, —did she file charges, after all?

The thought of standing before Celestia as a list of charges was read off wasn't the most comfortable imaginary scenario she'd ever pictured, but what truly turned her belly to lead at that thought was the understanding that, if things had actually gone that far south, she'd completely ruined any chance of a friendship with Trixie.

This whole fiasco had started with her initiating an overture of friendship.

She replayed —again!— everything that had transpired, from the moment she'd entered Trixie's wagon until they'd stepped outside, together, that afternoon from the Day Spa. Yes, there'd been moments of awkwardness, but nothing that had stood out as bad.

Not, at least, that she could recognize as such. But what did she know?

She snorted in altogether sincere self-deprecation. Princess of Friendship! she mentally cringed. What a farce! That's like anointing Fluttershy as “Princess of Assertiveness”, or Pinkie Pie as “Princess of Moderation and Reserve”!

Crossing her forelegs on the table she lowered her head down and pillowed her face atop them. There's a certain kind of travesty having a pony as socially awkward and inept as I am responsible over friendship. The one time I really want somepony as a friend, and it's me pushing for that, and I totally mess it up. I'm such a loser!

“Uuh. Ungh. Oof . . . Finally!” Grunting with effort Spike wriggled out from being halfway burrowed under the massive, ornate sideboard, several envelopes securely clutched in his foreclaws. Standing up he began riffling through them. “Nothing special,” he commented. “Just looks like some more invitations. Hmmm . . . must have missed this one before,” he muttered. “It's postmarked two days ago.” He glanced up just in time to see a purple, feathered meteor descending upon him.

“Aaaaah!!”

There were, Trixie was discovering, only so many ways one could check preparations before ridiculously repeating oneself.

She'd passed that point at least an hour ago.

There was a singing void in her guts, a hollowness that bordered on nausea. Although she'd frequently been nervous before a performance, she'd never felt like this. Those pre-performance jitters had normally been a result of excited anticipation more than they had been of nervousness. What she was feeling now was an anxiety that bordered on triggering actual sickness.

She'd never allowed herself to picture failure prior to a performance. A sardonic laugh of self-mockery choked out from a tight throat. Maybe she should have; she might have done better, perhaps have actually succeeded, had she done so. From the moment she'd announced her dream of becoming a performer of magic feats and tricks everypony had mocked, scorned and belittled her ambition and aspirations. And the more they'd derided her the more determined she'd grown.

She'd never forgotten all they'd said, and oftentimes, especially as she'd been entering a new town or setting up for a performance, those dire criticisms and woeful predictions had haunted her. But, while those had frequently caused an anxious moment or two, they'd vanished the moment The Great and Powerful Trixie! had stepped onto stage.

She was mortally glad she hadn't eaten much at all for breakfast, for if she had she might very well be turning her guts inside out.

Checking the preparations —again!— she tried, and failed, to stem the tide of utter futility that was drowning her.

The table, located in the middle of the wagon, was covered in a fine, white linen cloth, the edges bordered in delicate Gros Point de Veneighse lace. Two chairs, their seats and backs upholstered in rich fabric, were positioned on opposite sides of the table, in the aisle. At one side of the table a tea service was set: a creamer (empty at the moment; Trixie would fill it with cream from a small bottle from her ice box immediately prior to serving the tea, in order to keep it cold and fresh), a bowl containing sugar cubes, a tray of thick lemon wedges covered in fine gauze (to prevent spurting when squeezed), and several lead crystal jars containing various blends of tea.

On the counter sat an exquisitely ornate, polished platinum samovar, already filled with the crystal clear water of the burbling brook just outside the clearing. Instead of being heated with the usual charcoal briquettes or coal (as her stove and ceramic furnace used) she'd coaxed a salamander into providing the energy into keeping the water at a low roiling boil.

Positioned before each chair were the place settings. At the center was a luncheon plate, with an intricately folded serviette of the same linen as the tablecloth, set to its left. To the right was a small spoon for stirring the tea, while on the left was a small fork. The latter was most likely superfluous; Trixie wasn't serving anything particularly messy or sticky and, even if she were, as unicorns —well, as a unicorn and an alicorn— they could simply, and quite neatly, levitate such dainties. Still, it was elegant, sophisticated —and proper— to provide one, so she had. A butter knife was set to the right side of the plate as well. A teacup and saucer sat just above and to the right of their respective stirring spoons. Finally, a small waste bowl was positioned to the left of each place setting, just above the fork, and an exquisitely engraved cut lead crystal water glass sat just above the teacup and saucer.

At the moment the side opposite the tea service was empty. That was where the food would shortly be placed, light little fare such as scones, hoof sandwiches, small single-bite pastries and biscuits, along with small containers of butter, jams and marmalades, as well as a container of clotted cream, most of the latter keeping the cream company until ready to be set out.

A floral centerpiece would have been nice, but the table was simply too small for such because the wagon was small. Well, not small for a wagon, but small compared to a formal dining room.

Everything was perfect.

And none of it mattered.

Because Princess Twilight wasn't going to come.

Her guts knotted up even worse. What had she been thinking?

The envelope was of stiff, thick, expensive paper, a light cornflower blue that matched Trixie's mane and tail coloration, and was sealed with a round blob of brilliant azure wax that matched her coat.

Twilight quickly scanned the envelope, feeling an unusual nervous flutter in her chest as she did. The calligraphy was immaculate, ornate without being overdone. Breaking the seal, the design that of Trixie's cutie mark, she then removed the folded invitation from inside.

Spike painfully winced at the panicked screech. “Today? It's for today?”

The volume increased as she frantically darted her eyes to the wall clock. “In two hours!?”

Except for Twilight having caught Trixie in the middle of her extremely embarrassing “unwind-time” four nights past, the last time Trixie had cried had been years ago. In fact, she'd still been a student at Princess Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns. That had been the day she'd been called to the Dean's office and served the papers of Official Disownment that her parents had filed; shortly thereafter she'd dropped out of the school and, seemingly, off the face of Equestria itself, vanishing for several years before reappearing as The Great And Powerful Trixie.

She was near tears today.

There was still plenty of time remaining. It wasn't as if Princess Twilight was already late. But Trixie knew, just knew, she wasn't going to show up.

She hadn't any idea what she'd said, or done —or hadn't said or hadn't done— but she just knew it was her fault.

It always was, after all.

She kept replaying everything in her mind with the stark, harsh and bitter honesty she'd lately, this last year, come to use when self-reflecting. She could dismiss anything that had occurred during that night, since she really hadn't had anything to do with what had transpired. Being a helpless participant had, at least, absolved her of any fault; indeed, that was no small part of the allure being restrained had for her: total absence of guilt, or the need for decision-making or responsibility.

And while they hadn't started the morning off on the best of hooves it had, she thought, changed into something quite marvelous, and with a hint of possibility of something even more wonderful.

But then Trixie had realized how much pain Twilight had been in, and so that particular facet of things had, by necessity, needed to be tabled. But, even so, it had seemed as if Twilight had been much more relaxed and comfortable in Trixie's presence, and with Trixie herself, than she could ever before recall having happened. And Trixie herself had felt her guard relaxing, something she wasn't at all used to doing these last few years.

Of course, she had to let her stupid fear —or perhaps foalish phobia was a better description— ruin that, too.

Twilight wouldn't be the first pony to have tried talking to Trixie about that. Her instructors and teachers certainly had besieged her with “help”! Oddly enough, though, especially considering Twilight's reputation as a formidable —albeit, at times, irritating and pedantic as well— lecturer, she'd been the only pony to ever have, well, not objectively droned on and on! Instead, she'd talked to Trixie as . . .

Sniffling, she swiped a hoof across her eyes. Instead, she'd talked to Trixie as if she were Trixie's friend.

So what did Trixie do? She froze up —as usual when that topic, or similar ones, infrequently cropped up— and just shut down.

So Twilight probably assumed that Trixie was shutting her down.

They'd hardly even exchanged three words at the Day Spa. Trixie couldn't figure out what to talk about; although Mother had severely trained her in the art of small, inconsequential talk and exchanging pleasantries, she was years out of practice. Worse, Twilight seemed content to ignore Trixie and remain in silence.

It wasn't until Aloe had softly murmured something to Trixie that she'd finally been able to relax and keep her wistful, longing hopes alive. Aloe had leaned down as she'd been massaging her and had softly said next to an ear, “This is the most content and relaxed I've ever seen Princess Twilight.” Trixie had darted an astonished look back at the spa pony, who had simply nodded in confirmation. “Even when she is here with her other friends,” and Trixie had blinked at that soft, yet unmistakable, emphasis on 'other', “I've never seen her this relaxed. She is truly enjoying herself.”

“But . . . but she's not talking, or anything!” she'd murmured back in reply. Granted, Trixie had had little direct experience with personally receiving spa or salon treatments, but she'd attended Mother many, many times during her appointments, and it had always seemed de rigueur that patrons chattered like magpies, in low, semi-conspiratorial tones, during them! Oh, nothing crude like gossip, of course! Catching up with news wasn't, after all, the same thing as peasantry gossip!

A soft little smile had spread across Aloe's face. “Not everypony is like her friend Miss Rarity, who enjoys talking while indulging. Just . . . watch her, Miss Trixie. Well,” she chuckled, smiling as Trixie softly 'ooo-ed' as Aloe worked a stiff muscle group, “Watch, and relax, too, while Lotus Blossom and I work our wiles on you.”

And so she had done just that, and had felt an odd little glowy warmth inside as she had, for Aloe hadn't been deceiving Trixie. There had been no mistaking the look of dreamy bliss on Twilight's face. In fact . . .

Trixie had gently squirmed; in fact, Twilight looked very much as Trixie suspected she must have looked all during the previous night: supremely relaxed, and basking in a gentle hedonistic warmth.

And those times that Twilight's lids had slit just enough to peep out past them, and she'd noticed Trixie looking at her, she'd smiled in a fashion that had had Trixie's heart powerfully thump.

By the time late afternoon had arrived, and that heavenly experience had finally drawn to a close, Trixie had decided that, although her jury might still be considering other particulars regarding last night, at least concerning the matter regarding seeing Princess Twilight again had a resolution. But before she'd managed to actually work up the nerve to ask if she would “Drop by for a visit, if you please?” (and just how did a commoner pony extend an invitation to a Princess?) they'd already stepped outside the Day Spa.

Stepped outside. Together. Literally side-by-side. Freshly hooficured, manes and tails expertly coiffured by none other than Alberto himself, who had come from his salon to personally style the two of them.

And the moment they had exited, it had seemed as if every pair of eyes from every pony around had instantly swiveled their way, like iron filings to a magnet.

Trixie wasn't used to that sort of focused attention —well, outside of a performance, that is— and, to be honest, these last few years that sort of intense scrutiny was usually the precursor to being mocked, ridiculed and chased out of town. And it didn't seem as if Twilight was all that comfortable, either.

And so they'd departed, each their own way, without anything having been positively confirmed, one way or the other.

“Spike!” came the shrill yowl from the outside corridor, as the thunder of hooves echoed from her rapid departure as Twilight galloped off. “Spi-iiike! To the Library! Stat! I need books on etiquette!”

A paw weakly lifted up into the air from the supine form of the little dragon, visibly quivering towards the ceiling. “Be . . . be right there Twilight,” he got out in between several deep groans. “Just as soon as I stop seeing teeny Derpys flying around my head.”

The clattering of hooves slowed, then ceased, then picked up again, growing louder. Seconds later there was the screeching squeal of hooves as the flustered alicorn went sliding past the doorway, legs flailing. There came a low thud, followed by a muttered exclamation —thankfully too low to clearly discern— then the rapid clip-clop as she turned the corner and trotted over to her assistant. “Spike!” she shrilled, “Stop clowning around! I need you!” she exclaimed to the still-horizontal baby dragon.

“Book. Etiquette. Stat,” he grumbled on his way to vertical. “Gotcha.” His final word was addressed to her rump as she skittered off, a startled whinny as she went skidding again as she hit the corridor.

“And tell them to stop waxing the hallways!” she yelled.

Gently rubbing his head between his paws —as much to verify his head was still connected as it was to ease the dull throb there—Spike muttered something unintelligible. What in the name of malachite milkshakes had set her off like that? Padding over to the table he lifted up on tiptalons and peered about.

“Ah-ha!”

Picking up the envelope and invitation he quickly scanned them before groaning in disgust, his eyes rolling. “You have got to be kidding!” he grumped, barely keeping a flicker of flame from lancing out and incinerating both of them.

“Twilight!” he called out then, more urgently —and in dismay— “Twilight! Aw . . . c'mon!”

Entering the Library he paused, fisted paws on hips, eyeing the manic princess inside, who was prance-dancing in place, all four hooves beating an impatient, staccato tattoo.

“Spike!” she shrilled, seeing him just standing there. “Hurry! Please?”

He'd just opened his mouth to give Twilight an obviously much-needed piece of his mind when he stopped. His eyes narrowed a bit as he truly looked at her. “OK Twilight,” he said. “Just give me a minute.”

Without another word he quickly padded off, already knowing what book was needed and where to find it. What he didn't know, and certainly didn't understand, was why she was getting all this worked up over an invitation from —of all ponies— The Great Blowhard and Sanctimonious Windbag Trixie.

What he did know, however, was, for whatever reason, this was deeply important to her. There was an expression of heartache and longing (along with the more familiarly-seen panic) in her eyes that he'd seldom, if ever, seen before.

Dragging down a thick volume he gathered it against his chest, carrying it two-pawed over to a desktop bookstand and propping it there. “Here you go Twilight: By the great Baltimare authoress Emily Posting Trot: Etiquette in Society, in Business, in Politics, and at Home.” He ducked out of the way just in time. Pages whirred at blinding speed as Twilight hyperscrolled them. “Ah . . . are you looking for something in particular?”

“Am I supposed to do anything when attending a brunch?” she replied, her voice still with that catch of panic. “What are my obligations? Do I just show up? Am I supposed to bring something? If I am what do I bring? It didn't say R.S.V.P.; was I supposed to R.S.V.P anyway? I'm a Princess now; does that change things? Does this book even address the etiquette requirements of a Princess?” she stuttered, starting to hyperventilate . . . as usual.

Spike opened his mouth, then closed it, biting off the two instant answers that had almost blurted out. The first one would have been that Trixie wasn't worth disintegrating the way that Twilight was busily doing. The second was that Rarity would be able to quite hoofily answer any questions she might have regarding informal, and formal, party obligations. Granted, Pinkie Pie was usually thought of as being the “party pony” . . . because she was. But Pinkie Pie's strengths à la parties were the actual festivities themselves, and not so much the formalities of invitations and social obligations; whereas those were Rarity's forté. However . . .

If what Spike still felt about Trixie could be called a grudge, what Rarity felt was antipathy and enmity. In a way Spike didn't blame her; after all, he still wanted to —quite literally— light a fire under Trixie for having turned his crush's mane into a horrid slime-green mess with sticks and rat tails poking out of it. Seeing Rarity run off, crying and humiliated, had infuriated Spike then, and, even now, just replaying that memory had a trickle of smoke rumble from his nostrils. So asking Rarity for help would border on being criminal . . . because she actually would help, for Twilight's sake, even as that old wound was ripped anew wide open.

Spike simply didn't see why Twilight bothered with Trixie. As far as Spike was concerned, the only help he'd give her if she was floundering in quicksand was to toss her a cement life-ring! Yet . . .

Heaving a deep sigh he walked over to her. “Hey Twilight?” he emphasized with a light poke of a claw to her flank. When she yelped and stared down at him he gently but firmly told her, “Listen: go take a quick bath and get ready. I'll find out what's right and, if you need anything, have it ready for you. OK?”

His heart melted at the tearful, relieved look of gratitude she gave him. “Thank you Spike!” she breathed, hugging him tight. “Thank you!”

“Awwww,” he responded, lightly blushing. “It's nothing.”

“No Spike,” she replied, suddenly completely calm and radiating sincerity. “It's not “nothing” . . . it's everything.” She focused those violet eyes of hers fully on him, and he felt a lump in his throat at the warmth and love he saw there. “You've always been my Number One Assistant,” she said, her voice low and vibrant. “But you've always been my best friend, too. I just . . . I just don't know what I'd ever do without you . . . and I never, ever want to find out, either,” she finished in a softer voice that brought tears to his eyes as she lowered her head and gently rubbed her cheek against his.

No; no, he simply didn't understand why this “brunch” with Trixie was so important to Twilight. But, right now, that really didn't matter. What did matter was simply accepting that, for whatever reason, it was important to her . . .

. . . and because it was, he wouldn't fail her.

“Better get going,” he gruffly scolded, his voice thick. “Unless you want to show up with a soggy wet mane and tail.”

Giggling —a sound that made his heart light and his spirit soar . . . knowing he was the one that brought that joy and delight to her— she nodded before turning about and, much more sedately than her arrival, trotted off to her bathing chambers.

Once she'd left, though, his heart grew heavier. I'm sure she'll understand, he thought as he turned and started trudging off. After all, it doesn't matter who's hosting the party; what's important is that it's for Twilight.

He kept repeating that to himself the entire way, almost as a mantra.

In between that, though, was threaded another thought, and one he really didn't want intruding.

She's going to kill me!

“You're joking.”

Spike was backed up against the front door of Carousel Boutique, wishing he had had the foresight to have not closed it behind him. Rarity was standing several paces away, and the expression she was directing his way was cold and stony, her normally warm and lovely eyes flat and hard, and her head was tipped —unconsciously, he hoped!— just the slightest amount required to aim her horn at him like a leveled spear.

Audibly swallowing he gulped. “Ah . . . no. Actually, I'm not.”

Those steely eyes dangerously narrowed. “You actually have the audacity to ask me to help? When it involves . . . that one?” she almost spit.

Things had been going surprisingly quite well up to this point, 'this point' being just whom was hosting the brunch. Spike had —alas, unsuccessfully— attempted tiptaloning about that, but Rarity could be just as stubborn as Twilight, and she simply wouldn't let it go.

The image of Twilight, heart longing in her eyes, suddenly flashed in his mind and, as it did, his temper flashed as well.

“Yeah Rarity,” he said, his normally placid —when not playful, or even mischievous, for that matter— emerald eyes abruptly flaming. “I am asking you for help.” He took a step forward, and in the back of his mind was shocked when that made Rarity take a step back in sudden alarm, her eyes widening as her ears flicked way back.

Just not shocked enough to stop.

“Because it also involves Twilight. You remember her, don't you? Your friend? The pony who was willing to sacrifice, even as scared as she was, everything she had —everything she was— to free you from Tirek? The pony that, as awkward and out of her element as it might be for her, helps introduce you into the social circles in Canterlot, Manehatten and elsewhere? That Twilight. Remember her?”

He kept mentioning additional specific events, punctuating them with emphatic steps forward, until finally she was backed against the far wall.

“And I know you know how I feel about you,” he rumbled, pausing a moment as he felt his cheek heat up before forging on. “Do you really think so little of me, and my feelings toward you, to think I just decided to ask you this on a whim? Without thinking? Without considering what this might do to you? How this might make you feel?”

Rarity stared at him, eyes wide and shocked, a trembling forehoof held to her lips.

Forepaws fisted on hips he glared up at her for a moment longer then, quite visibly, seemed to deflate. “I promised to help her,” he softly murmured, “and you're the only pony I know that could help,” he ended in a whisper. His eyes quenched, the fire in them extinguished. “I . . . I didn't want to ask you, because I knew what that would likely do to you,” he continued in a whisper, staring at his hind paws, “but there wasn't anypony else.”

A hoof gently cupped his chin and lifted, until his eyes could, once again, meet hers. “You're right,” she softly admitted, “and I was wrong, and I'm so terribly, terribly sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”

His heart painfully thudded, the same way it always did when he looked at her, the most beautiful mare in all of Equestria. He knew it was silly, his crushing on her. It wasn't silly because they were different species, it was silly because she was so cultured, so sophisticated, so . . . so . . . so far above him he never stood a chance.

It hurt so bad, sometimes. Yet all it took was gazing into those gorgeous, soft blue eyes of hers and he simply melted.

He would die for her.

“There really wasn't anypony else I could think to ask,” he softly murmured. “At least, not anypony I was positive would be able to help Twilight in the time we had.”

Rarity nodded, warmly smiling at last. “And that's what really counts, isn't it? Helping our good friend Twilight. Isn't that right my Spikey-wikey?”

It was really odd, he thought, how his heart could both agonizingly ache at the same time as brightly blaze and soar with joy.

She'd already decided, even before noon of their spa day together, that she wanted to meet with Princess Twilight again. For one thing, there were still many unresolved questions that Trixie wanted answered and, for another, well . . . there were quite a few “curiosity itches” she wanted scratched. She might as well admit that something —well, several somethings, to be blunt—Twilight had said had stirred up a comparable feeling inside herself.

Considering that Trixie had always felt a bit freakish about the thrill she experienced when being restrained, that she'd always believed she was the only pony to feel that way —being unique as a predominant Mage was one thing, that was completely another; one was being paramount, the other was being a freak of nature— having Twilight candidly pronounce that, not only did she understand how it made Trixie feel, but understood it because she tied herself up, too . . . well . . .

So, yes, Trixie could certainly understand the yearning Twilight must have felt regarding having another kindred spirit to talk to about that!

But —and, in almost all ways, even more important— Trixie also had the oddest feeling that Princess Twilight would have been happy to have found any excuse, any common ground, to have met with Trixie.

And Trixie didn't know what to make of that; no, not at all!

On the slow, thoughtful trot back home Trixie had a lot to think about, and she'd considered many scenarios. By the time she'd reached home she'd concluded that, based on everything she could remember, Princess Twilight had left the matter regarding any future meetings entirely in Trixie's hooves. So . . .

What to do?

Back home she filled the kettle and set it to boil and, as she made herself a cup of tea, the answer came to her. And an ideal solution it was, too!

It seemed that those hated, hateful lessons would finally be of some use after all.

The only real conundrum she faced was the actual wording of the invitation itself, for none of those loathsome lessons had taught her how one invited royalty to a private brunch. Trixie finally had settled on a formal wording as being more traditional and proper, but omitted the conventional R.S.V.P requirement.

She'd posted it the very next morning, and ever since then her stomach had been singing with tension. Had she asked too soon? Had she set a date too early? Or too late? Trixie had decided that four days would be just about right: not so soon as to appear importunate, as if a Princess had nothing else to concern herself with and could easily just set aside time, nor too long, as if Trixie was asking Royalty to dance attendance on her.

She almost wished the preparations had actually required a great deal of effort, for at least she could have burned off this nervous anxiety with getting everything ready but, truthfully, she had virtually everything she needed, and all it really required was a bit of extra, judicious effort with her magic to make a few tweaks to her already-existent appurtenances.

She's not going to show up.

That . . . hurt.

It made an emptiness inside her powerfully ache. Trixie was used to snubs; to being rebuffed, and even ostracized. True greatness needed to armor themselves against the slings and arrows of those less fortunate, those less skilled and powerful, of course. That came with the territory. But this . . .

. . . this wouldn't be a matter of somepony less powerful choosing to avoid being overshadowed in the presence of greatness.

I . . . I don't want Twilight to want to be with me because I'm great. I . . . I just want her to like me.

She wished she could be as cool, calm and collected as Twilight surely was.

Is everypony staring at me?

From the moment she'd left her Castle it had seemed as if eyes were following her every step.

It's not like I don't go for walks about Ponyville for gosh sakes! Why is everypony looking so, well, stare-ey?

She'd been utterly shocked when, just as she'd about finished getting ready, Spike had knocked on her door and, when Twilight had said it was OK to enter, Rarity had followed him inside. She'd just been in the middle of putting her shoes on —she hadn't worn them once since the Coronation— and froze in sheer astonishment as the unicorn entered.

Her face felt hot as Rarity simply cocked a brow seeing the glittery, star-blazoned gold shoes on her hooves, then unaccountably felt as little as a foal as that cool gaze was transferred to her. Suddenly she'd felt as transparent as glass . . . and just as fragile.

That moment couldn't have lasted longer than a heartbeat, yet somehow felt as if an eternity had passed. But pass it had, and Rarity, after first exchanging an odd, semi-secretive smile with Spike, had warmly smiled at her friend.

And, as only a true, close friend could do, had gently chided her about wearing those shoes.

Actually, she'd done far more than just that. She'd approached Twilight and had gazed quite deeply into her eyes. Twilight had felt unaccountably nervous at that scrutiny.

“This is really important to you isn't it Twilight?” Rarity had asked, her tone unwontedly serious.

She'd nodded, her head hanging. “I . . . I want her to like me,” she'd murmured.

With her head lowered she hadn't seen the look Spike and Rarity had exchanged. In all the years they'd known her, that wistful, unsure longing was so unlike the usually self-assured Twilight they both knew and loved.

Rarity honestly couldn't understand why Twilight wanted that . . . boastful braggart of a trickster to like her, but it no longer mattered to her. She had no right to dictate to Twilight who she could, or could not, call a friend, and all the more so since Twilight was Princess Twilight, the Princess of Magic and Friendship. She'd be a poor friend, indeed, if she didn't support Twilight in her hour of need.

And so she had, gently and kindly guiding Twilight, calming her down, easing her stress as she suggested ditching the shoes, forgoing any clothing —which, for Rarity, was truly a miracle!— and applying the most minimal of cosmetics. She helped brush out her mane and tail, coiffuring it in a loose yet elegant style. And, finally, had passed over the gift she'd purchased for Twilight to bring as a hostess present.

At the moment said present was currently hovering above her croup as she trotted along, still feeling all those eyes staring at her even as she felt ever so much more at ease because of Rarity's support and encouragement.

As she began trotting along the path leading to Trixie's home the sensation of staring eyes faded, then vanished, being replaced, instead, by an ever growing sense of dread that even Rarity's pep talk couldn't vanquish. It seemed to take forever to reach the clearing where Trixie's wagon was yet, at the same time, it had seemed to have taken an eye blink to travel that distance.

Standing just outside the door Twilight paused, feeling her heart hammering like a blacksmith at his forge.

Raising her hoof to knock she prayed to her mentor, something she had never done before. Please, oh please Princess Celestia! Her plea slithered to a stop as she realized she really didn't know what she was praying for.

And then, suddenly, she knew.

Please Princess Celestia, don't let me mess this up! I really, really want to be friends with Trixie.

She would have invoked more but, as her hoof lowered to strike the door, instead it found empty air.

Usually her wagon felt quite comfortable but, at the moment, Trixie felt abnormally claustrophobic. I just need a breath of fresh air, she thought, stepping over to the door and opening it. She was just about to step out when a hoof narrowly missed her head.

Author's Notes:

Has any other writer experienced this? Having in mind Scene “A”, leading to Scene “B”, leading to Scene “C” . . . and discovering 15,000 words later that you're still trying to reach Scene “B”? And, not only haven't you, as yet, reached Scene “B” but you're even further away that you were to start with?

I write mostly for myself; it's a form of stress relief and of artistic release . . . using, mind you, “artistic” quite loosely here. There are times when I see what others create —whether music, or drawings, or movies, or stories— that I just want to weep, for they have reached the heights to which I aspire, and understand and accept I will never attain.

Especially when it comes to a genre and/or specialty I really like; MLP:FIM is certainly one of those. And when it is something that deeply touches me I find myself wanting —quite badly, actually— to be able to, in some way, to contribute to the creativity and imagination I see.

So, in those instances —and, again, MLP:FIM in this particular instance— I write not just for myself but for others as well, for I wish to contribute to them as others have done so for me.

What am I doing wrong? Based upon the number of views of both this story and my blog I don't seem to be attracting readers. Is it the story itself? Writing style? It seems it has to be something. It's a little discouraging when I see a foalcest clopfic between Twilight and Shining Armor rocket in popularity while mine languishes in the dark.

Or am I just being overly sensitive? Is my ego actually needing stroking and I don't realize it?