“Does it speak?” Lady Blunt asked; a sceptical look formed on her muzzle as a pale-coloured unicorn entered the kitchen wiping the sleep from her eyes, doing her best to stifle a yawn.

“Not often,” replied Octavia, wishing that, just for once, her mother wouldn't be so rude about her guests. Lady Blunt, the finest musician of her generation, had made it abundantly clear that she did not approve of her daughter's choice of best friend. What was the point of paying for the finest education in the land when you were studying with dilettante like that?

“What, exactly, is she?” Lady Blunt stared after Vinyl as she disappeared into the living room, clearly not wishing to become involved in another argument between the two.

“She's … Vinyl.”

“That's hardly an answer.”

“She's my friend. That should be all that matters, Mother.”

Before she could offer yet another acerbic reply, Lady Blunt's ears were filled with a note-perfect rendition of Stradivari's classic sonata Canticum Solis et Stellarum, often considered the most difficult of his works to master.

And yet an eight-year-old wastrel had done just that.

“Maybe she isn't so bad,” Lady Blunt said, a half-smile on her lips.