You could always find the truest essence of somewhere in its drinking establishments — particularly those places close enough to the hinterlands to avoid the scrutiny of the local authorities, and which still carried the word ‘tavern’ above their doors like a badge of honour.

Trixie had pressed the soil of many a place beneath her hooves, and this was one of two hard truths she had come to hold dear.

She dropped her copy of the Equestria Times onto the table and sighed.

The second was that the world was full of philistines.

Raising a tankard to her lips, the unicorn took a deep draught of too-warm, too-sweet cider and grimaced.  The only thing inside the tavern that had probably noticed was the barroom itself, and that was far too preoccupied with maintaining its own sense of shabbiness to care.  The four dusty windows were doing an admirable job of keeping the sun out and sparing the blushes of the interior, but Trixie had a nose, and it was far too easy to pick out the various fluids that had matted the straw-covered floor.

It was a place that didn’t make you yearn for home, but perhaps question the reasons why you left.

A bark of laughter drew her attention back to the group of rough-edged stallions propping up the bar, and for the second time that evening she made the mistake of making eye contact with one of them.

“So, whatch’a reckon sweetflanks?” he leered, patting the area of the bar beside him.  “Tartarus frozen over yet?”

Trixie fixed him with the blandest smile in her repertoire.  He lacked the three chins and wispy beard-fluff of his companions, and was thus the attractive one of the group.  For that alone he was deserving of a small amount of restraint.  

“Trixie has no idea,” she replied.  “Why don’t you go there and find out?”

The unicorn returned to nursing her drink, her smile thinning as she heard the stallion’s companions laugh and jostle him.  She had come here hoping to understand the drab town a little more — to find out what made the ponies here tick, and thus to make her next show even more fabulous and engaging.  Unfortunately the insights she had been afforded so far had not been overly promising.  Aside from the charming stallions, the only other ponies in the tavern comprised of the young couple and their foal sat at the table in front of her — by the looks of it tourists who were clearly regretting their decision to rough it with the locals.

Trixie snorted as another barely formed catcall was thrown in her direction.  Roughing it was probably everyday living in Horsesham, and she didn’t care for it at all.

Feeling her stomach grumble in protest, the unicorn tried to distract herself from the still absent hayburger by returning to the newspaper.  The face of Hocus Pocus, that Tartarus-born colt, stared back at her from the pages of the entertainment section.  Did he look smug? Trixie was pretty sure he looked smug.

The youngest ever pony to graduate with full honours from Canterlot’s Royal Drama and Stage School, the paper gushed.  His first act written and published at just nine years of age! His performances an exercise in captivation that perfectly balanced spectacle with heart (all too often absent, in this writer’s opinion)!  Surely it was only a matter of time until he was also the youngest ever recipient of an Olivineigh Award!

Trixie felt her ire rise again.  It was all so ridiculous.  Like no colt or filly had ever written an act before — why, Trixie had performed a whole season of shows by the time she was eight, and she hadn’t even attended that stupid school!  Where was her Olivineigh Award? Why was she the one still stuck performing in some backwater hamlet while this snot-nosed brat was elevated up to Broadhay to follow in the footsteps of the greats?  It was simply because of his age wasn’t it? His age and his stupid—

As her jaw clenched, Trixie became aware of a strange sensation rising up through her legs.  It was a hollowness that ached and demanded completion — somewhat like hunger, but overwhelmingly more potent — and the more it took control of her body the more her skin prickled and itched.  Lines of perspiration broke out across her forehead and the nape of her neck.  Her heart threw itself repeatedly against her chest.  Thump.  Thump.  Thump.  Thu—

She forced her eyes shut and desperately willed her lungs to slow down; her ears to resist the whispers that crept close.  For a few moments she was afraid that the technique that had saved her so many times before was becoming ineffective, but, slowly, the moment finally passed and her body returned to a state of equilibrium.

“Nice.  Try.” she gasped bitterly, and pushed a hoof through her sweat-kissed mane.  It scared her though, even now, how potent the lure of the Alicorn Amulet was, and how far its influence reached.  She had only possessed the artefact for a few days, but the stain of it was still upon her — calling out as soon as it sensed her control of her desires was slipping.  As always, she shuddered at what might have been had she stayed under its thrall for longer.

A shrill wail cut through her ruminations, and Trixie opened her eyes to see the foal announcing his displeasure at the speed, or lack thereof, of the food service.  She watched his snotty face pucker and contort as he cried, despite the best attempts of his parents to distract him, and felt her own features twist into a scowl.

It was a scowl that lasted about two seconds.

Ponies could call her many things — ponies did call her many things — but a mare lacking in maternal instincts would never be one of them.

“Hey kid,” she cooed, as a raspberry glow filled the air.  “There, there.  No need to cry.”

She lifted the wilted flowers from the vase on her table with her magic and danced them in twisting circles above the foal’s head.  He stopped crying immediately — his beady eyes turning joyful as he tracked them dipping and somersaulting before, one by one, they blossomed into tiny eruptions of coloured light.  A muted scent of smoke and decayed pollen flirted with Trixie’s nose.

The foal giggled and clapped his hooves together, and Trixie returned the appreciative smiles from his parents as a stallion started to bring out the food.  A warmer reception than she had been given last night, and she hadn’t even needed an encore to achieve it.

Trixie gazed down as her hayburger was placed before her.  It was a sad looking thing, but she hadn’t been expecting much for the price.  Besides, she was far too hungry to care about aesthetics — why, she was so hungry she could eat a—

With a flash of light and a clap of thunder, a pink pony burst from between the buns of the burger and landed on the floor in a confused, condiment-soaked heap.  Trixie blinked at the remains on her plate before looking down at the mare, whilst opposite, the foal giggled and clapped his hooves again.  That was the problem with the showpony business these days — it was so hard to keep an audience loyal.

“Oobsies,” the mare giggled as she squeezed ketchup from her pink mane.  “Dat’s nebber habpened ‘efor!”

Trixie frowned.  She wasn’t surprised by much in life — in her profession you couldn’t afford to be.  Unexpected things happened, and you simply rolled with them.  But there was something about the mare’s voice — squeaky, despite sounding as though she had a serious cold — that was uncomfortably familiar.  Her mane too, come to think of it.  And her face—

“You!" she gasped, as realisation dawned on her.  “The pony that can play ten instruments at once!" What was her name again? It was something ridiculous, she remembered that much.

The mare snorted two streams of mustard from her nose and inhaled deeply.

“Whew, that’s better,” she gasped.  “And I don’t go by that name anymore — not since the Ponyville Orchestra Debacle of Hearthswarming Eve (Twilight’s words).  Now I’m Pinkie Pie the pub-grub traveller…apparently.”

She thrust out a hoof, but Trixie didn’t reciprocate.  Something black was stuck to the end of it.  It might have once been a pickle, had pickles possessed the ability to look like dishevelled lumps of black goo.  As she watched, it slowly slipped from Pinkie Pie’s hoof and fell to the floor with a thud that belied its appearance.  Pinkie’s eyes travelled between Trixie and the pickle-goo.

“Were you gonna eat that?” she asked eventually.

The unicorn blinked twice before shaking her head.  Just roll with it.

“Oh good, because you shouldn’t really eat burnt pickle-paste — it can make you queasy.”  Pinkie grinned before picking the subject of their conversation off the floor and tossing it into her mouth.  She chewed thoughtfully.

“Just what are you doing here?” Trixie growled.  “And, while we are on the subject, how?  Trixie demands you share your stage secrets!”

“I have no idea,” Pinkie replied cheerfully.  “One minute I was thinking of you, and the next my legs were all jelly-welly and my stomach whooooshed, and suddenly I had mustard in my nose and fried hay in my mouth.”  She crossed her eyes in thought for a moment before punching a joyful hoof into the air.  “Best sudden food trip ever!”

Despite her discomfort Trixie was intrigued.  After all, it was certainly a novel use of—

“Wait a minute,” she waved a hoof in the air.  “You were thinking about me? Why?  Again, I demand to know!”

She was suddenly aware of the fact that she was leaning closely over the mare — practically muzzle to muzzle in fact.  She readjusted herself on the stool, and took a drink to distract herself from how tight her chest was suddenly feeling.

Pinkie took the chance to leap up onto the stool opposite and gesture wildly to the stallion behind the bar.

“Oh barkeep! A pint of my usual please!” she cried jubilantly.  Leaning in close to the unicorn, Pinkie lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.  “I don’t even know what my usual is,” she added.  “It might be strawberry schnapps, or it might be vanilla rum on the rocks.  I mean, how are you supposed to know?”

Trixie watched the barkeeper as he stared at the pumps and bottles.  For a moment she wondered whether Pinkie had broken him, but his jaw suddenly clenched and unclenched, and he took a tankard and pump and began to pour.

She turned back to the earth pony.  “Back to the point, if you please.  Trixie is busy.  And hungry.”

“Oh sure — why I’m here.”  Pinkie raised a hoof.  “I’ve come to ask a favour, actually.  But first—” she reached into her voluminous mane and pulled from it a set of small plastic mouths, each one carrying a different expression, and placed them on the table before her.

Trixie considered raising an eyebrow.  Pinkie Pie shrugged in response.

“Just in case,” she said.  “Anyway — first I want an apology.”

A bark of laughter exploded from Trixie’s mouth.  “An apology?"

“Uh-huh!” Pinkie folded her forelegs and waited expectantly.  In the silence that followed the barkeeper trotted over with a tankard of rose coloured liquid and set it down in front of Pinkie.  As he took the bits from her he looked down at the remains of the burger on the floor, and then glared at Trixie.

“I think he’s mad,” whispered Pinkie loudly; unhelpfully.

Not for the first time since arriving in Horsesham, Trixie yearned to be back in her wagon.  She met the stallion’s gaze.

“What? Don’t look at Trixie like that!  You think that’s the worst thing to have been spilt on your floor today? Anyway, Trixie is minded to ask for a refund.  There was a hair in her burger — and it was attached to a pony!"

The barkeeper blinked at that and opened his mouth, before obviously thinking better of it and trotting off with a firm shake of the head.  Trixie scowled.  She had been half-serious about the refund.

“That was a good one!” Pinkie chuckled for a moment, her forelegs still folded expectantly.  Trixie matched her pose.

“So, do tell me.  Why on Equestria would Trixie apologise to you?” The answer was obvious of course, she knew that, but the sudden request was less so — and besides, the mare was starting to irritate her.  If she wanted an apology then she was going to have to work for it.

The hypocrisy of this was not lost on Trixie.

Pinkie inhaled deeply.  “You have to apologise because I want to ask a favour of you, and I can’t ask a favour of you unless we’re friends, and we can’t be friends — not super-duper awesome partner-in-crime type of friends — unless I know you’re sorry for stealing my mouth that one time, and how am I supposed to know you’re sorry for stealing my mouth that one time unless you actually tell me you are?!

Her sparkling blue eyes turned pleading.  “And besides,” she added.  “I thought you were the Great and Apologetic Trixie these days?”

Trixie felt her chest constrict horribly at the reference, and she forced her lips shut against the trembling whicker that threatened to escape her.  It was always the same whenever her thoughts were dragged back to Ponyville — to that day.  Her skin started to crawl, and her stomach started to clench and oh, how she just wanted to curl up into a ball at the bottom of a deep dark hole.

Still, if there is one thing a showpony should never do it’s let the audience know they have stage fright.

“Trixie doesn’t go by that name anymore,” she replied, keeping her voice light.  “Not since the Great Alicorn Amulet Debacle of Ponyville — Trixie’s words.  But fine.  I apologise for the mouth stealing…thing.”

Pinkie’s smile widened, and Trixie quickly raised a hoof.

“But I don’t want to be your friend.  You’ll just have to ask your favour of some other pony.”

“Aww.” The smile sank into an exaggerated pout and Trixie sighed inwardly.  It really was an absurd sight.  Just how old was she anyway?  

Pinkie sat quietly for a few moments before looking up and meeting her eyes.  “But you’re the only pony who can help me.”

Trixie caught herself smiling at the unexpected compliment and quickly wiped it from her face.  Raising her empty tankard in the air to request a refill, she pondered Pinkie’s request.  Perhaps it was the cider, but she was intrigued.

“Let’s hear it then,” she said at last.

Pinkie’s smile engulfed her face and, momentarily, the room.  “Awesome!” she squealed.  “My favour is — I want you to teach me about Punch!”

A fresh tankard was placed before Trixie and she hoofed a couple of bits over.  Did this mare say anything that made sense?

“Let me get this straight.  You think I’m the best pony to teach you about the history of punch?”

“Uh-huh.” Pinkie nodded vigorously, that stupid smile never leaving her face.  Trixie drank deep and frowned.

“As in the drink?” she sought to clarify.

The earth pony blinked.  “Oh no, you silly filly — of course not!” She took a deep draught from her tankard and nodded.  “Ooh, that’s good!  No, if I wanted to learn about punch punch then I’d have gone and asked Berry Punch, or maybe even Moonshine.  I want you to teach me about Punch the character — you know, as in ‘pleased as Punch?’  The clue is in the capital P!”

“Ah,” Trixie nodded as understanding dawned on her.  “How foolish of me not to have realised from such an obvious hint!  You’re referring to Pulcinella, or — as he is known in Equestrian — Punch.  A character made more recently famous from the Punch and Judy plays in which he appears.”

“That’s right!” Pinkie exclaimed.  “That’s exactly what Twilight’s book said — or, at least that’s what it said at the start.  Then it started getting super serious, and I got drowsy.  Then Twilight shouted at me for eating her new dessert recipe book in my sleep — I mean, how was I to know that it wasn’t actual pastry? It sure tastes that way when you’re asleep.  Oh, and then—”

Trixie continued to sip from her tankard as the earth pony chattered on, absently wondering which of the two were likely to give her the bigger hangover.  This had been a bad idea from the start, and indulging the mare was only making things worse.  She needed to take control of the situation. Now.

“Pulcinella is of Neoponyton origin!” she blurted out. Once she was sure she had Pinkie’s attention, she composed herself and continued.  “Naturally, as a student of Neoponyton stage techniques and traditions, Trixie is knowledgeable about this creation.  He is a stock character from the days of masquerade theatre many years ago, and one incarnation appeared in a puppet show brought to Equestria from Capralogna, by an ibex called Senoir Swazzle.”

Pinkie nodded once.  Trixie took it as a sign to continue.

“His character is usually subversive and often appears purely for the purpose of comic relief.  Punch and Judy itself is a show that celebrates outrageous and mischievous forms of comedy.”

Pinkie nodded twice.  Trixie took it as a sign to continue.

“However, prior to the show appearing in Equestria, Pulcinella was already famous and well-loved in Capralogna and other regions of Bitaly.  Why, for a time, many puppeteers would use the character in pre-existing plays in order to insert a satirical angle to the proceedings.”  

As she spoke, Trixie was aware of her earlier ire being smothered within a warm blanket of pride.  Despite her audience, she had forgotten how good it felt to share knowledge to a willing pair of eyes and ears.

Pinkie nodded three times, and then started to snore.

Trixie watched her incredulously for a moment, before slamming a hoof onto the table.

“I’msorryMissbutGummyatemyhomework!” Pinkie cried, leaping from her seat in fright.  She blinked and took in her surroundings, before looking back to Trixie with a rueful smile.  “Um, you were saying?”

“He’s a character in a puppet show,” Trixie replied through gritted teeth.

Pinkie sipped her drink.  “Cool, so can you show me?”

Trixie felt goosebumps erupt across her body.  “Excuse me?”

“You know, put on a show.” Pinkie rubbed her eyes.  “You might not know it, but I really struggle to learn things through words and stuff.  It’s much better when I can see it with my own eyes.  I just thought, being a great stagepony and all, you’d know the performance.”

Like the shadow of a bird passing overhead, a memory flitted across Trixie’s thoughts and was gone.  The dark echo it left behind felt like it would swallow her whole.  She shivered.

“No.  Absolutely not.  Trixie will not lower herself to perform such an uncouth form of comedy.”

“Buuuut—”

Trixie pushed Pinkie’s muzzle away from her own.  “I said no.  There are plenty of performers lacking Trixie’s talent whose repertoires will include that show.  Pick any seaside town and there’ll be one there.  Brayton isn’t too far from here, try—”

“But can’t you come with—”

Pinkie pushed her face back towards Trixie and something inside the unicorn snapped.  She rose to her hooves and slammed one down onto the table.

“Trixie has spoken!” she roared.  “Go and find your stupid show and leave Trixie alone!”

True to the character of the place, not a single occupant acknowledged her outburst, except for the little foal, who switched allegiance back to Trixie once again.  She glared at Pinkie and, to her surprise, the earth pony glared back.

“I knew you were still a big ol’ meanie,” she replied quietly, but firmly.

Something felt wrong. Pinkie’s smile had faltered by a margin that seemed both tiny and yet significant, and though her expression radiated a sense of satisfaction, there was also resignation in her eyes.  Trixie had seen that look enough times to recognise the joyless satisfaction of being proven right, and she felt her throat tighten.  Pinkie Pie had been expecting her to react this way.  She still thought of Trixie as an enemy.

The unicorn considered this for a moment.

“Why do you want to know so much about this show anyway?” she asked eventually.

“I have my reasons.”  Pinkie’s expression didn’t change.  It was uncomfortable, but something more too, and Trixie exhaled deeply.

“Trixie is — I am — sorry for that,” she said quietly.  “You know, I don’t a grudge against any of you what happened in Ponyville, and I sincerely hope you do not either — although I’d accept it without complaint if you did.  That being said, I’ve no wish to be reminded of my time there at present, nor do I have any interest in performing, or watching, a lowbrow show.”

Before Pinkie could reply, Trixie slipped from her seat and left the tavern.  Nopony else acknowledged her departure — the same as nopony had acknowledged her arrival — and the fact hung heavy on her heart.  She was proud and she was strong, of course she was — she was Trixie.

But she wasn’t immune.

Although they tried, Trixie’s parents never seemed to really understand her desire to live in a wagon.  She didn’t mind that, of course — on the contrary, it made perfect sense.  Her father was a shipwright and her mother a headmistress; roles requiring stability and the committing of ones roots to the earth, and therefore diametrically opposed to that of a travelling showmare.  For such a pony, a wagon afforded a great many benefits, but providing enough space to hide from oneself was not among them.

The unicorn paced up and down, listening to the sound of her hooves against the hard wooden floor, and the slapping of the rain on the roof above.  She had found nothing to distract her from the melancholy that had been waiting outside the tavern, and which had clung so tightly to her since.

Sitting down at her dressing table, Trixie peered at the reflection in the mirror.  She looked tired.  Tired, and just the little bit flustered, but relieved that at least some part of her felt outraged by the fact.  Her hoof tapped one of the flickering bulbs bordering the mirror until it stayed lit, before dropping down to rest on the hoof-grip of the drawer beside her flank.  Trixie hesitated.

Seeing one of Twilight’s friends again had helped resurface a surprising amount of guilt, but spending a lifetime on the round made it impossible to make cheap lies to oneself.  There was more to her current state of unease than resurrected memories of Ponyville alone.

Pulling the drawer open, Trixie gently lifted out a small walnut box and placed it onto the dressing table.  Taped to the surface of the box was an unopened envelope with her name decorating the front, and as she followed the curves of the writing with a hoof it suddenly felt as though something else was in the wagon with her.  An echo of a rich, assured voice danced in her ears, and as she listened Trixie felt both pride and joy creep up her legs and quell her heartache.  She allowed her head to lean into the embrace, just for a moment, and closed her eyes as she was once more encouraged, and praised, and corrected, and criticised, and—

No! Trixie’s eyes flew open and she leapt from the seat.  She was letting him in again — letting it all back in — and she stamped her hooves in frustration at being so weak.  It was in the past now.  It was in the past, where it belonged.

Trotting over to the small stove in the corner, Trixie lifted a simmering pot and made some coffee before settling down on her bed.  The book on advanced stage techniques was still lying closed on her pillow, and as she appraised the cover she faintly remembered the excitement she had felt when she had discovered it in that old Canterlot antiquity store the other week.

She took a sip of scalding coffee and opened the book.  A minute later though and she was forced to concede defeat.  It was the same as it had been the night before the show — nothing was sinking in.  It wasn’t that the concepts were difficult for her to understand, but the enthusiasm she used to once have for learning new techniques was gone.  As last night’s performance had demonstrated, she could easily throw a half dozen technically brilliant spells into the air and the audience would be dazzled and captivated enough, and yet she had been constantly overlooked of late in favour of less talented acts.  What was the point in just learning more of the same?

“Whatch’a reading!?”

Trixie whickered in fright and dropped her coffee, recovering her wits in just enough time to catch the cup, and its contents, with her magic before they landed on the bed.  She quickly moulded the hot liquid into a projectile, before spinning round to confront the intruder.

“You!" she gasped.

Pinkie Pie sat at the dressing table, spinning around on the stool.  The earth pony grinned broadly as she slowed to a halt.

“Ooh, that looks like a really serious book.  Can I read with?” She plucked a dense looking hardback from the depths of her mane.  “Twilight gets all grouchy during book club sleepovers because I read too loud, but I’ll try really really hard to keep quiet this time.”

Trixie carefully returned the coffee to the cup, and looked at the book in Pinkie’s hooves.  A Complete and Unabridged History of Equestrian Stage Shows – 8th Ed.

No.  This was not going to happen.  For a moment, Trixie considered indulging her curiosity and asking Pinkie Pie exactly how she had gained entry to the locked wagon, but common sense prevailed.  If there was one thing she had taken from their earlier encounter it was that the mare was not to be engaged with in conversation.  Surrounding her in a raspberry haze, Trixie lifted Pinkie Pie into the air and deposited her onto the doorstep outside.

“Awww, come on!” The door banged insistently as Trixie stepped back and slid the bolt shut.  “I’m sorry I called you a meanie, but I promise this’ll be fun” We can drink coffee and talk about your shows, and maybe you’ll start liking me enough to go and see ol’ Pulci-Punch with me.”

Trixie leapt back in alarm as one of Pinkie’s eyes forced itself through the keyhole and stared pleadingly at her.

“J-just leave me alone,” the unicorn demanded.  She trotted to the bed and turned her back to the door, wondering what to do.  The book was still an option, but it had been hard enough to focus when she had the soothing lullaby of the rain and the raging whirlwind inside her head competing for her attention, and now she had this to contend with as well.  

After a few minutes she looked over her shoulder and was appalled to find the eye still watching her.  A growl escaped her throat.

Would you like to see a magic act?” she asked.  “A really special one Trixie only uses on the most important of occasions?”

“Ooh would I?” The excitement in Pinkie’s voice was almost physical, and for the briefest of moments Trixie felt a prickle of guilt.  She buried it straight away.

“Very well then,” her horn tingled as she started to pull small splinters of wood gently from the floor.  “This one is a variant on what Trixie likes to call fitting one thousand needles through a keyhole.”

It had the desired effect.  With a muffled squeak, Pinkie’s eye disappeared from view and Trixie sighed with relief.  She looked down to the book again.  Another cup of coffee this late might not be the brightest of ideas, but it would help her get through a chapter at least.  Who knew, it might even help her to start enjoying it.

Her eyes drifted to the pot on the stove, but then continued to move around the interior until they found the box once again.  Blood rushed to her face, and with it anger.

She had opened it.

Trixie launched herself from the bed and darted to the dressing table with her heart in her mouth.

The contents were present and intact, and she felt the strangest combination of relief and sadness from the fact.  Inside, two beautifully carved wooden marionettes gazed back at her with fixed smiles on their faces.  In between them lay a small note with faded writing.

She couldn’t read the rest, but it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that her eyes had become damp and blurry.  No, it was all the fault of that stupid faded ink.  She looked down at the floor, furious with herself for letting it all back in again.

The years may as well have been seconds.

“Happy Birthday Trix!”

The young filly beamed with pleasure as the present was passed to her, before realising her newly fitted braces were on show.  She snapped her mouth shut, but couldn’t keep the giddy excitement from bursting free.  “Cantrip! Oh my gosh, thank you so much! Can I…can I open it?”

The elderly pony smiled warmly as he looked down at Trixie and adjusted his hat.  She grinned again.  That hat, with all those stars decorating it, was the coolest hat in all of Equestria.  And it had to be, really, for Cantrip was the coolest pony in all of Equestria.  Despite his age, his black hair and silver mane were vivid and bright, and he wore his beard fashionably short rather than long and stuffy-looking.  Best of all were his eyes.  Trixie had always thought grey eyes should be serious and cold, but Cantrip’s glittered and sparkled as though he was still a mischievous colt.

“Of course you can open it,” he replied with a laugh.  “As much as I admire my obvious talents in wrapping presents, it kind of defeats the purpose in gift giving if it stays intact.”

“Ha ha, right!” Trixie shredded the paper, oblivious to the fragments blowing away down the street.  Inside was a smooth box decorated with beautifully intricate whorls and a tiny gold clasp.  She opened it with shaking hooves, and felt the breath leave her body.

“Oh gosh, Cantrip!” She pulled the two gorgeous marionettes free from the box with her magic and turned them this way and that before her eyes.  “They’re so beautiful.”

Leaping forward, she threw her forelegs around the earth pony and squeezed harder than she had ever squeezed in her life.  “My very own set — I can’t believe it.  Thank you so much!”

Cantrip coughed, and patted her gently on the back.  “Be needing strings myself if you squeeze any harder Trix.  But I’m glad you like them.  Every performer learning the Neoponyton style needs to start with the basics — and you can’t practice the basics without your own marionettes.  Besides,” he added with a wry smile, “Too many from my own collection have been going missing of late.”

Trixie giggled as she admired the marionettes again, feeling giddy and overwhelmed.  “Sorry.  Oh I can’t wait until our next lesson!”

Cantrip’s eyes became curious.  “So?” he asked, peering past her into her house.  “What else did you get from your friends?”

The filly swallowed — the earlier joy suddenly replaced by a painful sensation that rose warmly to her cheeks.  “T-Trixie doesn’t need friends,” she replied hotly.  “Apart from you that is.  You’re coming in for some tea and cake, right? There’s…loads left, and Mom and Dad would love to say hi.”

If Cantrip had picked up on the tremble in her voice he didn’t show it.  “I see your stage presence is developing nicely,” he replied.  “As it happens, I have some errands to run—”

“Oh please!” Trixie squeaked desperately, and flashed what she hoped was the smile that worked so well on her parents.  “Pleasepleasepleaseplease!”

“—but I’m sure I could manage one small slice.”

Trixie gently closed the box and looked up at the mirror.  There was a small smile on her reflection’s face but it looked sad and wrong.  Exhaling deeply, she trotted to the door.

She was going to regret this, she just knew it.

Pinkie Pie jumped in surprise as the door opened.  Lying at her hooves was a sleeping bag and what looked like an open journal.  Both lay just enough under the lip of the wagon’s roof to be sheltered from the rain, unless of course a strong wind began to blow.

Trixie fixed her gaze on the blue eyes of the mare, who shifted her flanks uncomfortably.  “You pay for our transportation — Trixie does not travel by hayburger — and I will accompany you.”

It was strange.  The last thing she wanted was to see the earth pony again and be reminded of all of the things she represented, but there was something about the smile that broke out across her face that made those concerns seem a little less important.

“That’s amazing!” Pinkie Pie cried.  “It’s going to be so much fun, I promise! I’ll totally book the train tickets right—” she looked out into the rainstorm “—um, tomorrow morning.”

Trixie nodded, and moved to shut the door again.

“Wait!” Pinkie cocked her head to peer inside, and grinned sheepishly.  “Sooo, it’s super cold and wet out here.  It sure would be nice if somepony would offer a bed or some floor space to a weary food traveller.”

The unicorn thought about that for a moment and looked up.  A strong wind had begun to blow.

“I’m sure it would,” she replied, and shut the door.

A clap of thunder ripped through the air and Trixie shuddered, grateful that she was cosy and warm inside.  A moment passed, and then another, and a low groan reached her ears.  It took Trixie a few seconds more to realise that she was the one who had made it.

Sometimes it was hard being Trixie.

She walked back to the door again and opened it.

“I’m having coffee,” she said brusquely, keeping her eyes fixed on the ground.  “Would you like some?”

Silence greeted her, and for a moment she wondered whether she had actually succeeded in ridding herself of the earth pony.  The fact that she wasn’t instantly pleased by that outcome was somewhat concerning, but a moment later Pinkie spoke.

“Um, I know you can’t see me — so just to let you know, I’m nodding.”

Trixie looked up.  She didn’t smile, but a scowl wasn’t forthcoming either.

“Fine,” she replied, and gestured inside with a hoof.  “You talk for a second after Trixie retires for the night and you’re back outside.”

She was going to regret this.

She just knew it.