Feathery Snipper did, indeed, come; and when she did, Sweetie Belle was waiting for her. She had chosen the one place where she knew Snipper would find her, and where she was sure that she would come. It had taken some effort to find it again, but now Sweetie Belle stood surrounded by green candles, looking up at the unfinished portrait of Fleur and the black-haired colt beside her.

There was a slight creak from across the room: Feathery Snipper’s way of announcing her presence. She entered the room, and although she chose to walk rather than fly her motion made no sound. Even with her silence, though, she made no effort to hide, or, really, to hurry. She simply walked toward the center of the decaying ballroom and into the corridors she had created in the things she had collected over her years of working for Fleur.

“I thought I told you not to come here,” she said.

“I know,” said Sweetie Belle. She turned away from the painting and faced Feathery Snipper, who had positioned herself near an incomplete suit of pony armor and the decrepit statue of one alicorn and two white unicorns. “I wouldn’t try anything, either. I’ve been here for a while, setting up spells in case something goes poorly for me.”

“I noticed. And the quality is good, even though you’re an arrogant little filly. Trust me, I know how to deal with magic.”

“That you learned from the war, right? When you fought ponies like me?”

Feathery Snipper’s eyes narrowed. “I see you spoke to the ponies in the village.”

“I did. And I know who you are, Whiteshade.”

Snipper’s expression remained consistent, but her eyes glimmered slightly, and not in a positive way. “It has been many years since I heard that name.”

“It’s your real name, isn’t it?”

“No. Of course not. It’s the name they gave me when they took mine.”

“What is your real name, then?”

“It does not matter.”

Sweetie Belle turned around completely. “You’ve been trying to kill us.”

“And you are an idiot speaking of things you do not- -no, that you CANNOT- -comprehend.”

“You pushed Rarity into the pond.”

“Yes.” That was all she said, a simple affirmative. She did not even offer an explanation, and for some reason that made Sweetie Belle irrationally angry.

“You could have killed her!”

“I know.”

“Because she’s a white unicorn?”

“What? No. Of course not. Because of what she did to Silver.”

“Silver?” Sweetie Belle was taken aback. This was not the direction she had intended this conversation to take. “What does he have to do with this?”

“What does- -what does he have to do with this?”

“Are you joking? Are you really that thick? Of course you are. You’re a unicorn. Did you not wonder why his face was bandaged, or the stitches? It’s because your sisters smashed a glass over his face.”

“Rarity wouldn’t do that!”

“Well, then, who did it?” she said, leaning forward. “Hmm?” Sweetie Belle did not have an answer. “He came to me shaking so badly he could barely stand. She came within less than an inch of leaving him completely blind. But that’s okay, isn’t it? He’s just a servant. It’s acceptable to abuse him, isn’t it? Even if it leaves him a weeping mess having flashbacks to the beatings that took his other eye?”

“That explains why he was in the groundskeeper’s shed…in your home.”

“No. He was in there because we had just made love.”

Sweetie Belle suddenly gaped. She was not sure if she should feel disgusted or not.

“Don’t give me that,” sneered Snipper. “Just because I am old and he is young, does that make it wrong? I may be aged, but I’m not geriatric.”

“But- -but- -”

“And I’m not going to lie. Yes. I pushed your sister, because she hurt a pony I love deeply. I was also the one who found Lady De’Lis when Silver- -the idiot- -jumped in after her.”

“But then what about the poison?” Sweetie Belle was trying to change the subject. Her response had been severe, but on some level, Sweetie Belle understood why Feathery Snipper had attacked Rarity. “The rat poison you tricked Muguet into putting into all the food?”

Snipper’s eyes narrowed, and the corners of her mouth turned down into a frown. “This kind of question, you should not be asking it,” she said. “Those are things you are not meant to know.”

“But you admit it! You were trying to poison us, and Fleur!”

“Tell me,” said Snipper, slowly. “Do you think a unicorn with her disease would even notice a drug like that? Believe me. They don’t.”

“You know about the hemophila?”

“Of course I know. I have the shame of having been responsible for the death of the last heir of House Roman. I watched him bleed there in front of me, into the snow. A wound that would have meant nothing to a normal pony, but to him…” She shook her head. “I still…I can’t forget his face. I can’t. It will never leave me.”

“But you hate white unicorns.”

“Because I fought against them? Are you really so simple, or just naïve?” She sighed, and stepped forward. Sweetie Belle raised her horn, preparing a defensive spell. Instead of attacking, though, Snipper drew close and turned over her left foreleg. Sweetie Belle gasped when she saw that what Springgreen had said was true, in part. There was indeed a mark, but it was far larger than Sweetie Belle had thought. It had faded in time, but up close, Sweetie Belle could see the scarring that made it up.

“Do you think I wanted this?” asked Snipper, her tone deadly serious. “They came to our villages. They took the children. They branded us, and made us fight in their war. I do hate you, but only because hatred is all I had for so very long.”

“I…I didn’t know…”

“Of course you didn’t.” Feathery Snipper took a few more steps forward and stood beside Sweetie Belle. She stared up at the unfinished portrait, and Sweetie Belle saw tears welling in her eyes. It was only then that Sweetie Belle realized how similar the sketched and partially painted colt in the painting looked to her.

“He’s your son,” she gasped.

“No,” said Snipper. “My nephew. Son to my beloved brother. He left our village when I was younger than you are now. He went west, to work for a beautiful white mare.”

Something about that did not make sense, but Sweetie Belle did not know what, exactly, even though it seemed so very close to the surface of her mind. “But then why is he here, in this picture with…”

“His mother.”

Sweetie Belle froze and looked up at the painting, and then at Snipper, and then at the painting again. Snipper was not smiling, nor was she joking in any way.

“But that means- -”

“That Lady De’Lis had a bastard son? Yes. And…” She sniffled suddenly. “He looks just like my brother.” She lifted her hoof and gently touched the canvass, as though she could caress the cheek of her nephew instead of just his incomplete image. “This is the only picture of him that exists. His birthday was two months ago. He would have been forty three this year.”

It suddenly hit Sweetie Belle, a realization that felt like an electrical force through her brain. “Feathery,” she said, turning toward the Pegasus. “How old is Fleur?”

Snipper did not answer, but it was apparent that she was now crying openly. Her tears were falling to the dusty floor below. “I just went along with it,” she said. “The war, the way it left me, I didn’t care. I didn’t ask the questions. I didn’t want to know. But now…” She turned to Sweetie Belle. “I tried. Too late for my brother, but for them…I tried, Sweetie Belle, I tried! I thought if I was cruel, I could make her leave…or if I could beg him to come with me…”

“Feathery, slow down, you’re not making any sense!”

“I begged him! To run away with me, to go even farther west! To marry me…I’m too old to bear foals, but we could have adopted. There are so many children in my home country that have no parents. But he wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t leave her side, though.” She stopped, breathing hard and suppressing the sobbing. “And now…it’s too late.”