Spilling Ink

by Jarvy Jared

First published 13th of July, 2017

Meet Ink Quill, a young girl attending Canterlot High, and follow her on her quest to write the perfect romance story.

When you have an idea, you do it. When you have an idea for a story, you write it. When Ink Quill has an idea for a romance story, she... can't write it? What's a writer to do when they cannot put pen to paper?

Turn to life and all the strange and wonderful people in it for inspiration and motivation, of course. After all, you can't learn love from a mere book or research study; you have to go out and ask others what they think it is and experience it for yourself. Ink is glad her friends are willing to help, but who's this farmboy who shows up with a boatload of romantic advice? And why is she and her unwritten story drawn inexorably towards him?

One thing's for sure: Ink Quill will learn what it means to love and to be in love.

---

A contribution to the PoME Universe. More information can be found at the link.

For inspiration, motivation, support, critique, and all-in-all for being amazing and incredible people, I have these to thank. Check out their stories, too, while you're at it:
BlueSun52
BRyeMC
Azure_Shadow
Ragga_Muffin (also the maker of the cover art!)
FrostGuardian
Lord Celtic Stoner
Snow Bullet
sunbuttsparkle
PyraFlare Bullet
Tiberius Silverfang
CosmicAlchemist24
DarkMaster0224
SonicRPika
C T Lilly
KillerRobotQuote
... and an additional extension of thanks to all the members of the PoME group, readers and writers alike. You've given me a place to test the waters and my skills as a writer. I've learned a lot and grown a lot since then.

Chapter One: A Dry Well

Author's Notes:

So. A third PoME story? After I'd already wrapped up my second? Am I freaking crazy? Insane?

Probably. I'd like to think that's a charming part of my personality.

Behold, reader: my first attempt at writing a romance story, the kind with which veteran PoME readers are familiar. It shall be lively and ludicrous. It shall be sappy and maybe meaningful. It shall be fun; at least, I think it shall be fun. But what do I know? I'm just the author.

Will this have the same level of depth that Day By Day had? Maybe. Maybe not. Will it be as long? Doubtful. Will it be good? That's for you to decide.

With that said, I welcome you to Spilling Ink.

Her heart was his before they’d even met.

“No, that’s not a good opening. Um…”

They were soulmates before they’d even been acquainted.

“No, that’s no good either. How about…”

Once upon a time…

“Oh, who am I kidding…”

A pair of lilac hands stopped typing. Then they resumed, only, instead of progressing forward, they hit the backspace repeatedly. The page was blank once more. It was a sorry sight to behold, and the whiteness of the page mocked and ridiculed its creator with a vehemence surely only a monster could have. The vehemence carried from there to a navy skirt, shaking it, and it continued up a dark, cobalt long-sleeve shirt.

There was a low hum, not from the computer, but from the computer’s owner. It quickly devolved into a disgusted huff. The page was open for but a moment longer before the owner fiercely slammed the laptop shut.

To say Ink was annoyed was an understatement. She was more than that; she was frustrated, exasperated, exhausted, and a whole bunch of other synonyms that she couldn’t think of at the moment. The emotions shot through her body like rockets of negativity, hitting her nerves and causing her to slam her hands onto her bed. The soft blankets absorbed the blow, but they did little to filter her frustration. She stared into the top of the laptop, hoping her eyes would shoot similarly-colored-burgundy laser beams into it, perhaps frying it into submission.

Ink spread her arms like an eagle and fell back, letting her laptop slip over to the side. A breath rushed through her nose, amassing as a worn-out sigh that carried softly around her room. She fiddled with a strand of short, dark-indigo hair, which was scruffy and unkempt. She hadn’t bothered combing it the moment she’d gotten home from school; she’d been filled with a desire to ignore everything else but the idea that was floating around in her mind, like a fairy to catch. She’d sat down on her bed, opened her laptop, opened a new document, and…

Well, she didn’t need to finish that thought.

Ink’s sigh became a groan. It had seemed like such a good and easy idea at the time. Yet the moment she’d begun typing, it apparently decided to take a vacation and leave without informing her until it was too late. Now its absence mocked her. She knew it was somewhere; she just couldn’t reach it, couldn’t grasp it in her hands and shove it onto her pages.

Her hands fell over her face, covering her burgundy eyes. Through her hands, she mumbled, “God, why does this have to be so hard?!”

But she’d mumbled louder than she’d meant to. Her mother’s voice came from downstairs, presumably the kitchen. “Ink, dear? Are you all right?”

Removing her hands, Ink shouted back, “Yeah, I’m fine! Just frustrated is all!”

Her mother didn’t reply, so Ink assumed that was that. She kept her hands down next to her and stared up at the ceiling.

It was a rather low ceiling, sloping at the end. A single light bulb hung from it, dangling by a beaded wire. Her eyes roamed around, looking from the dreary ceiling to the less-dreary walls that surrounded her. These were covered in posters from older eras, back when she was obsessed with a certain boy band or comics or whatever.

Her eyes traced over a Countess Coloratura poster, before darting from it to one of the Rainbooms, her school’s own band. Then they jumped over to a picture of the Power Ponies and the like. They were all familiar, and that was the problem, for she could no longer turn to them for the inspiration and motivation she so desperately craved.

She was about to groan again when she heard her mother coming up the steps. A moment later, the door cracked open a peep, and in stuck her mother’s amethyst head. “What are you frustrated about?” she asked, peering at her through square-rimmed glasses.

“U-uh, w-well—” Ink could feel her face burn up. “You see…” Her voice faltered, and she looked away, embarrassed.

Her mother took that as permission to enter. She closed the door behind her, made her way over to her daughter, and sat down beside her. Her eyes went from Ink’s shadowed face to her closed laptop. “Is it school?” she asked.

Ink shook her head. “No, school’s fine. More than fine, actually. Kind of boring, since the holidays are happening and winter break is coming up.”

“I see. No projects, then?”

“None whatsoever. And I finished all of my homework, too.”

Her mother nodded as if she really did understand, and Ink knew she did, to some extent, just not fully. Not many people did, anyway. She was tempted to sigh again.

“So if it’s not school, and it’s not homework,” her mother said, “then what is it?”

Ink’s blush intensified. “It’s, um… m-my writing…”

Her mother giggled lightly. “Oh, right! Your little storybook!”

She was half-tempted to smack a pillow in her mother’s face. Unfortunately, her mother was in the way of said pillow, so she couldn’t reach over and grab it. She opted for putting her head in her hands and clenching her eyes tightly shut. “Mom!” she exclaimed. “It’s not just a ‘little storybook!’ It’s a novel!”

“Oh, all right,” her mother said, her giggles dying down. “I’m just teasing you, Ink. You know that, don’t you?”

“Doesn’t make it any less infuriating.”

She felt her mother’s hand fall onto her back, gently rubbing her. She could tell she was frowning. “I’m sorry, dear. I know that novel means a lot to you.”

“Yeah. It does.” This time, she did sigh. “I’m sorry, mom. It’s just… annoying to me when people think an art is useless, y’know?”

Her mother’s hand retreated. “So that’s it, then? You’re upset about your writing? I’m sure it’s not that bad.” She made to reach over to grab Ink’s laptop, but Ink stopped her midway. “Hmm?”

“That’s just it,” Ink said, shaking her head. “It’s not the writing that’s making me upset. It’s the lack of writing.”

“Lack of—I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Ink let go of her mother. She smiled ruefully, and tapped the side of her head. “Writer’s block, mom. The bane of my existence, the little devil over my shoulder, the voice in the back of my head.” She then shook her head. “I came home today and had a great idea, but whatever I’ve been putting down so far just doesn’t sound… right. Do you get what I’m saying?”

“A little. So far nothing seems to be matching up well with what you’re thinking?”

“Yeah, exactly.” Ink pouted, hands folded in her lap. “It’s just… I really want to have something done before the end of junior year. Even a rough rough draft, or some sort of outline, anything. But I can’t put the words to paper, and it’s… it’s making me frustrated.”

Her mother pursed her lips; she obviously had no idea what to say. Ink couldn’t blame her. What could you say other than a bunch of empty reassurances? Ink had no material on hand; there was no evidence to suggest she ever had a chance of completing anything. Her laptop was filled with empty pages, while her mind rambled on and on with endless ideas. There was a gap between those two things, one she could not easily cross.

“Well, you have all weekend to try and come up with something,” her mother said. She said this to say something for the sake of saying something. She appeared doubtful of her own word.

Ink sighed again—an addicting habit. “Yeah, I guess so… I guess I shouldn’t push it, huh?”

They talked a little longer, mostly about other things, and then her mother had to leave her alone to prepare dinner. Ink’s room was now just filled with her empty pages and bursting thoughts. She’d never felt more certain that she was uncertain than now.

I’ve got to do something about this stupid writer’s block! But what?

She stared up at the ceiling and wondered without end. She had to find a way; she just had to. If she didn’t…

If I don’t, then I’m gonna feel like I’m in a rut for a long while. And who knows when the spark of inspiration will return?

She curled her lips. Of course when she was in the middle of ruminating did she come up with some sharp lines of dialogue. It was when she had to turn that into black pixels on her screen did she stutter. How ironic.

But what could she do?

Suddenly, she felt her phone vibrate. Sitting back up, she took it out and flicked past the lock screen. A familiar name popped up, with a familiar message:

“Same time tomorrow?”

And there was her answer. Or, at least, a possible answer.

She typed in a quick response: “Yeah. And, actually, could I talk with you about something at the same time?”

Only seconds later—and she liked this fact about this person; he was quick to respond—did he reply: “Sure thing, Ink.”

She let out another sigh. Tomorrow couldn’t come quick enough.

Chapter Two: A Search for Motivation

She was an artist, an entrepreneur of the written craft, exotic, vibrant, stern and stubborn, with all the fury of a devil and all the contemplation of a philosopher.

He was a quiet boy, a scarred boy, a deep boy, with a passion for friendship and love, a face that spoke not just of burdens but also of triumphs.

Together, they were not the best of friends.

But they were close friends nonetheless.

He was standing at their usual spot—the corner of the street—wearing his yellow jacket. One arm was crossed across his body, while the other held a walking stick tightly. Despite the wintery atmosphere, he didn’t seem cold; he attributed this tolerance to his life in the big city of Manehattan, where it was periodically much colder than in southern Canterlot. As such, no hat covered his icy-white hair, and no mask confined his sharp, cerulean eyes.

He saw her coming, dressed in a fluffy, dark-purple down jacket, and he waved. She walked over to him, as was customary. They were both smiling, though her cheeks were turning red from the cold.

“Artifex Frost,” she greeted, holding out a gloved hand.

He took it and shook. “Ink Quill. I see you’ve still got that hairbun and bangs of yours.”

“And you’re still wearing that dopey, yellow jacket.”

He grinned. “Sharp. Have I ever told you that?”

“Only several hundred times, yes.” She felt a shiver run through her, and she fought to stop her teeth from clacking. “Can we go now? Before my limbs freeze off.”

He swiveled on one foot, pointing his cane down the snow-covered path. “Let’s, then.”

In retrospect, she never thought she’d be friends with someone like Artifex Frost. He’d only been in school for three months now, having arrived on the very first day of school (and thus the very first day of September). On the outside, he was impassioned and impersonal, with a certain level of bluntness that competed with her own. He was smart, in his own way, but he seemed a bit aloof, a bit odd, like he wasn’t the kind of person you’d just walk into on the street.

They’d been in the same first block class, and they’d not even talked to each other until a little bit after Thanksgiving. That was because Mr. Solil, the teacher, wanted to switch things up a bit, “pair you up with a stranger so you’d not be so comfortable.” Things had been awkward at first, with neither knowing how to talk, let alone work together.

And yet, they’d surprisingly bonded, over a seemingly random point. Someone had asked for the upteenth time what Artifex’s first name meant, and he, in an annoyed tone, had tersely stated “author.” She knew that, but she hadn’t thought to ask until then if he’d actually written anything before.

He’d hesitated for a moment, before saying, “I write a journal. Personal one.”

“Oh, that’s cool,” she said, and she meant it, because no one else did that, because why would they? There weren’t many writers per se in their grade. “I like to write, too.”

She’d half-muttered, half-whispered, but Artifex had heard her anyway. And he’d oh-so-graciously avoided asking her “What do you write about?” and she was glad he’d not said that, because she’d not have had an idea of how to answer. Instead, he’d asked her why she did.

“Because,” she had said, “it makes me feel complete.” It was meant to be a vague answer, yet she’d hoped—thinking it would be in vain—he’d understand.

And he did. “Because writing brings you solace,” he’d said with a nod. “Because it heals something inside you, a hole, a wound in your heart.”

She’d smiled at that. “You’ve got a way with words, too.”

“Seems like we both do.”

The next step in their bonding process had been the following weekend. Ink, while not a fan of the cold, felt a morning jog in brisk weather would 1) wake her up and 2) give her some manner of inspiration, so one morning she did just that. She was surprised to find Artifex out and about, a cane in his hand, a simple jacket (not even a winter one!) covering his body. She’d called him crazy; he’d corrected her and said “I’m a Manehattanite.” She asked if that wasn’t the same thing, and he’d said “Ask Mr. Solil!”

They’d walked—they could not jog because of his leg—down the sidewalk, into the city of Canterlot, without even realizing where they were going, and she didn’t stop to ask him what he was doing out here until much later. They’d talked, not just about writing, but about life and their lives and friends and of Manehattan (she’d love to visit, and he recommended she go one day) and of all sorts of random and enjoyable topics. They’d shared a mutual liking for this instance and decided to make it a regular event every Saturday since then.

Of course, it didn’t take long for some people from school to see them. A few rumors—innocent ones—spread; they’d been quick to discount them, much to the displeasure of a certain sweater-wearing girl. Besides, she knew Artifex only saw her as a friend. And he was, after all, showing signs of infatuation to a different girl, and while Ink had yet to confront him over it, she’d hoped the best for him all the same.

“Hold up a second there, Ink.”

She suddenly felt his hand stretch out in front of her, stopping her walk and her thinking. She blinked. They were in front of an intersection with piles of snow covering parts of the sidewalk. The light was green for cars and red for pedestrians. She looked at Artifex and noticed he’d a cautious, slightly apprehensive look on his face.

She didn’t know why he seemed so scared about intersections, but she’d heard bits and pieces of conversation from others about it. Something about his sister. She didn’t think to ask him; it was private information, and he’d tell her eventually.

He checked both sides, seeing the light turn red. Then he nodded. “Okay, let’s go,” he said. They crossed.

When they were on the other side, Artifex said, “You’d zoned out there, Ink.”

She offered a light laugh, mostly because it felt socially fitting. “Sorry. I was just thinking about how we first met and became friends.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? Then why were you smiling?”

“Ooph, you wound me so, Artifex. Ye know Aye luv you!”

He rolled his eyes. “Nice accent. You should be an actress.”

Around them, the snow continued to fall lightly, and they landed on her face and neck like cold kisses from angels. But because they were still moving, she hardly noticed.

Canterlot was surprisingly busy. Ink only just now noticed how many cars were on the road. The stores were all open, with lines of people piling in and out, trying to get in their last-minute holiday shopping. Someone had taken the liberty to dress the street lights with green-and-red strings of mini bulbs. There were elves and plastic Santa Clauses that ran on clockwork mechanisms inside store windows, and a bunch of children gathered in front of them like moths to a flame. Someone was playing Christmas music over the radio, and it carried on the chilly wind and drifted lazily into Ink’s ear. She hummed a little but nothing more.

“Any plans for Christmas?” Artifex asked her after they’d passed another crowded store.

“I’m probably going to go south,” she said. “Visiting relatives on my mother’s side. What about you?”

He took out his phone and showed her an email. “Treble Mix sent it. We’re having a party at his relatives’ mansion.”

She took his phone and looked closer. “A secret gift exchange? Did you already choose your person?”

She handed the phone back to him. He nodded. “Did you get the gift yet?” she asked.

“Not yet. That’s why we’re here.”

They stood now in front of a general good store. There wasn’t much of a crowd around it; the other shops were apparently more appealing. Inside, Ink saw copper lights in the place of the more modern neon ones. The whole store seemed to have a yellowish tint to it, like old copy paper.

Artifex pushed open the door, and together they entered. It smelled like her attic, cold and dusty, with piles of random books and goodies placed throughout. There was a single cashier there—she was an older lady, with silvery hair that dangled thinly from her scalp, and her eyes were beads of black. Soft, melodic Christmas music was playing through a radio speaker installed in the ceiling.

They went down the aisles, looking for… well, Ink had no idea, but Artifex seemed to have one. Their hands went over books about self-help; they skimmed racks of stuffed animals and a few gift cards. There were beer kegs and beer pitchers and beer memorabilia, and next to these were a bunch of sports goods, like bobbleheads and little statues of famous players. Ink picked up a magnet that read “I ain’t crazy, just from up north.” She showed it to Artifex, and he offered a simple chuckle.

“What exactly are we looking for?” Ink then asked. They were in front of some glass cases; inside she saw model boats and planes.

“Something for Sunset Shimmer,” Artifex said back. “No Clue told me this would be a good place to start.”

“Right, but what, exactly?”

He turned to her, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I’ll know it when I see it.”

She punched him, lightly, and he groaned but laughed just as well.

They combed the rest of the store, deftly maneuvering around boxes of unknown items. At some point, the radio station changed, and now it played something that didn’t quite sound like Christmas music, but still felt thematically appropriate for the season. Artifex was humming along to it, even tapping his one good leg on the floor with his cane keeping a steady beat.

After they’d combed over everything else, they found themselves in a somewhat dark corner of the store. There was a plain, cardboard box set on a tray table, and it looked like it hadn’t been moved in ages. Artifex spent a little while shifting through its contents, and Ink saw that inside were a bunch of lined notebooks, like the kinds you’d get in first grade so you could complete a journal assignment.

He suddenly pulled back with a satisfied “Aha!” In his hand was a leather-bound notebook, simply made, with minimal craftsmanship or design to it. Its pages were the color of aged wax, and they were thick and robust—by no means the typical, commercial paper you’d buy at an office store.

Ink raised an eyebrow. “Really? A notebook?”

“I’d explain,” he said, “but that would ruin the surprise. Besides,” he added, after placing the notebook at his side, “shouldn’t we be talking less about me and more about you?”

He went past her before she could respond. Despite his limp, he moved fairly quickly, and was at the register and paying before she’d caught up to him.

“You did say you wanted to talk,” he said without looking at her. The old lady at the register told him the cost, and he handed her a wad of cash. She took it, inputed it in, gave him the change and receipt, and put the notebook in a bag.

“I did,” she admitted. “But you were busy and—”

He waved her off. “Nonsense, Ink. I’m not busy enough ever to avoid listening to a friend in need. And I’d say you’re in dire need as well.”

“What makes you think that?”

“You’ve been biting your lip so much that I think you’ve forgotten that hurts. You’re bleeding a little—here, have a tissue.” He took out a pack and handed her one, and she dabbed at her lips. The tissue came back red.

Artifex thanked the lady, and the two of them made their way out of the store. “You bite your lip when you’re nervous or frustrated,” he explained as they went back onto the street. “It’s a habit.”

“And a bad one,” she muttered. “I should really stop.” She took a breath, feeling the cold, wet air cycle through her.

He stared at her for a moment. Then he nodded. “I know a good place to talk,” he said. “Just follow me.”

Sugarcube Corner was busy, but it wasn’t too busy. After greeting Pinkie Pie and the Cakes, they were able to find themselves a booth rather quickly, and Artifex placed the recently bought notebook down next to him. They decided to order something warm. Artifex chose a muffin, and Ink went with coffee, “the best thing in the whole world.”

“If you don’t mind the bitterness, that is,” Artifex had said when Pinkie had left them.

He leaned forward. “So, tell me: what’s on your mind?”

She fought to conceal an embarrassed blush. “It’s, um, well… it’s about my writing.”

He blinked. “Your writing.”

“Mmhm. You see—”

“Food’s here!” Pinkie suddenly exclaimed, causing Ink to nearly jump out of her seat. Artifex somehow managed to remain impassive. He thanked Pinkie for getting them their orders.

“No problem, Arty! Anything for you and your friend!” She noogied him; she actually noogied him, and she was quick about it, too, so he didn’t have a chance to respond. She was back in the kitchen by the time he thought of a retort.

Ink’s face burned. “Did she just—”

“Get used to it,” he groaned. “Next to Adagio, Pinkie can be an absolute tease.”

“But we’re just friends!”

“Which makes us have, apparently, the bedrock of a blossoming relationship.”

“Is that you talking, or Hazel?”

“Both, at this point.”

The coffee was hot, but Ink didn’t mind. She drank it without first blowing on it. The hot liquid would have burned her throat, but she’d gotten used to drinking far hotter beverages. Artifex, meanwhile, dug into his muffin quickly, because “these muffins are the absolute best, you know.”

She did know, and watching him scarf down a good portion of the muffin was pretty funny. She kept that part to herself, though.

He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Now, back to the topic at hand. What’s wrong with your writing?”

She shook her head. “Where do I even start? I came home yesterday, absolutely brimming with ideas, and I couldn’t get a single one of them to work.”

“To work?”

“You know, I couldn’t write them the way they sounded in my head. Or, like, I tried to write them, but they didn’t sound right.”

His brow furrowed. “What exactly are you writing?”

She took a sip of her coffee before answering. “A novel.”

“What’s it about?”

“Just… people.”

“People?”

“People.”

“People.” He didn’t believe her, or maybe he knew there was more to it than that. She sighed, knowing she was probably about to be completely embarrassed.

“Okay, promise not to laugh?”

“Cross my heart, hope to fly, stick a cupcake in my eye.”

“You better keep that promise, Artifex!” Pinkie shouted from the kitchen.

Ink sighed. “Okay. It’s… it’s about romance.”

She was met with a surprising amount of silence. Artifex’s brow remained furrowed. His hand lay neutrally against the table, right next to the muffin. She watched him carefully, trying to gauge his response.

He opened his mouth, and she instinctively cringed, anticipating the oncoming onslaught of questions and teasing remarks.

“Go on.”

Now she was speechless. She’d expected at least a chuckle, even from him, and she’d gotten nothing. He looked at her expectantly, waiting. She cleared her throat.

“Th-that is… it’s a romance novel.”

“So I gathered.”

“... you’re really not surprised by this?”

“Oh, no, I’m really surprised. Just not so surprised that I’m going to bother and pester you for all eternity.”

He held his hand out, palm up. “Besides, I can see this means a lot to you. No point in ribbing you over it.”

She was quiet. A smile crept up on her lips, and though it was small, it was strong and jubilant. “Thanks, Artifex.”

She explained everything to him. So many ideas had entered her head, and so little—possibly none at this point—ever left. She felt like she was in a creative rut, “like my ideas won’t leave the hanger.” The only pauses and interruptions came from each consuming their order before them.

Through each explanation, Artifex listened carefully. Sometimes he stopped her to ask for confirmation over something, but other than that, he kept mostly silent. Judging by his tight lips and deep frown, he was mulling over the matter as best he could. Ink ranted and vented and groaned and cursed; she waved her arms, slammed her hand down, sometimes twice, shook her head with a ferocious energy.

Then she stopped. She was panting, so caught up in the moment, in her tirade, that she hadn’t noticed she’d exhausted herself. Pinkie came back, smiling as brightly as ever. “Well, don’t you two look cute together!”

“Sorry, Pinkie,” Artifex said brusquely. “Not now.”

She paused, visibly confused. She turned to him. “Oooh. Serious moment?”

“Serious moment.”

“Gotcha. I’ll come back later. How does that sound?”

“That’s fine,” Ink said. Pinkie left.

“You’re in some creative trouble,” Artifex said.

“That’s one way of putting it. I’ve got a seriously bad case of writer’s block, Artifex; and I have no idea how to get past it.”

His frown lessened, and his brow no longer creased, but he maintained a distinct, piercing expression. “But why come to me?”

“Because you’re also a writer. I figured you’d understand more than anyone else.”

He shook his head. She felt a bit of disappointment creep into her heart. “It’s true, I like to write. But you and I… we write different things. We are different writers.”

“Yes, but—”

“What exactly do you need help on?” he interrupted. “What part of the writing requires assistance? You’re a good writer, Ink, through and through. I’ve seen that in class many times before. So tell me,” he said, leaning forward, “what’s the hardest part for you, then? The idea? The execution? The characters? What is it?”

She hesitated. “I guess… all of it.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Maybe it isn’t all of it.”

“Well, if I can’t even get a sentence down, then it probably is mostly, if not all of it.” She ran her hands through her hair bun. “I just… Artifex, it’s hard to explain, you know?”

“I know. It’s hard to make it seem right. But I can’t help unless I know what it is you need help with. I need context, Ink.”

She tapped her finger against the table. She looked out the window, and saw all the people walking or driving past.

“I’m trying to make it a good relationship,” she said softly. “By that, I mean having the characters act like real people.”

“Instead of characters of caricatures, they’d be as real as you and I.”

“Exactly. So I want them to act, talk, interact, move, whatever like actual people. But whenever I start writing them, it sounds stiff and sloppy. Everything sounds mechanical, from the narration, to the dialogue, to the exposition, everything.” She clenched her hands and brought them up to her temples, rubbing them. “Ugh. Everything just sounds so bad to me that I can’t get started!”

He said, “In other words, it’s not as though you don’t know where to start; it’s more along the lines of you don’t know how to start. Is that right?”

“Yes! Yes, yes that is right. That is absolutely, 100% right!”

Then she paused. Her shoulders sunk, and she slinked back into her seat, hunching over. “Wait. That’s… not good, is it?”

Artifex shook his head. “I don’t think it’s bad, per se, but it’s not good, either. How can you start writing, after all, if you don’t know how you put the first word down?”

“First sentence.”

“First sentence, same difference.”

“So you see that I’m very, very—and I mean very very—frustrated.”

“Clearly.”

Another period of silence followed. Ink grew uncomfortable waiting. Artifex was looking away, into the street, as if he thought an answer would arise there. People came and went. Some went into Sugarcube Corner while others left it. Breakfast hour began to fade.

One of the people who came in Ink did not immediately recognize. He was tall and peach-skinned, and he walked cordially up to Pinkie and made an order.

Still Artifex did not say anything. She saw his brow return to its furrowed state. “Artifex?” she called. “You still there?”

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry. I’m…” He sighed through his nose. “I’m trying to think of some manner of suggestion. But I guess I can’t.”

“You… can’t?”

“I can’t.”

“You—”

Bam!

Her fist came down onto the table, making Artifex actually jump. “Damn it, Artifex! What do you mean you can’t?!”

“Hey, whoa, whoa! Ink, calm yourself!”

“Calm myself?! You led me on a wild word chase and all you’ve got to say is that you can’t help me?!”

“I didn’t say that, because I wasn’t finished yet!”

“You—”

Ink’s voice faltered the moment she saw the look in Artifex’s eyes. His were a piercing cerulean, so sharp it could seemingly cut stone with but a glare. She felt it seize her voice and silence it, telling her to stop, to listen. So she did.

The boy opposite of her took a deep breath. “Ink. I know that you’re frustrated.”

“That’s an understatement.” She would have mumbled more, but his glare cut her off.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “All right. So. You don’t have an outline?”

“Nope.”

“What do you have?”

“A vague idea of a premise? Artifex, where are you taking me—”

“Just bear with me. What’s the premise?”

“Girl and guy fall in love.”

“Simple enough. What about characters; do you have them?”

“Yes? I mean, kind of. I don’t have names… or, actually—” She trailed, frowning. She tried to remember anything about her characters—and she came up blank. “No… I don’t actually have much in terms of character. Just the fact that they’re a girl and a guy.”

“Do you know how they’ll fall in love? Do you know what the conflict will be? The drama, the tension?”

“No,” she replied guiltily.

Artifex hummed thoughtfully, bringing a finger to his chin. “Well,” he said, “maybe you could start there.”

He took a moment to sort through his words. Ink took a sip of her coffee. She did not once take her gaze off of him.

“From what I’ve read,” Artifex said, “the best characters are the realistic ones. You know that already. But maybe just because you know that, doesn’t mean you understand that. Maybe you just have to… get people more.”

“Do you want me to go out and watch people and take notes?”

“What? No! That’s a total invasion of privacy!”

“Well, what else do you want me to do?! That’s the only way you can study people nowadays! I mean, besides pulling a Hazel and stalking them from afar… Oh, geez, you don’t think she’s here right now, do you?”

“Ink, focus—”

“I am focused!” Another hand came down, nearly flipping her cup of coffee in the process. Artifex made a distinct point of scooching a little ways back.

This time, Ink was the one who took a deep breath. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I’m just—”

“Frustrated,” Artifex completed with a nod. “And how.”

“I don’t know what to do… you don’t know what to do… I don’t know if anything can be done!”

“Hey, don’t be like that.” He stretched out and covered her hand with his. He squeezed it a little. “Listen. Writer’s block is never permanent. It might take some time, but it’ll wear off.”

“But why can’t it wear off now?!” she wailed. “Why does writing have to be so hard when I want to do it? Doesn’t it understand that that just makes me not want to do it?”

“Maybe it just has a sick sense of humor.”

“That would explain why so many famous writers go mad…”

“Hmm. Maybe.”

They allowed a silence to interrupt, but it was not a silence that was wholeheartedly welcome. Ink slowly grew aware just how quiet it was in the bakery. There weren’t that many people left.

“Pardon me.”

A deep, baritone voice came from her side. She looked up, and saw the same, peach-skinned young man from before standing there. Dressed in a red jacket—those shoulders were a leather brown with green apples emblazoned on them—and jeans, he resembled—she couldn’t help but make the assumption—a farmer of some sort.

“Ah couldn’t help but hear the two of ya arguin’. Y’all were pretty loud. Is there a problem?”

Artifex then glanced up. He offered the boy a courteous nod. “Oh. Hey, there, Big Mac.”

“Howdy, Artifex.”

“Got another order?”

“Eeyup,” Big Mac said. “Granny needs some of the best desserts Sugarcube Corner can make. She’s thinkin’ of combin’ them with some of our signature apple pies. It’s fer the whole holiday season.”

“Ah, I getcha. Must be pretty busy.”

“Eeyup.”

“You’re quite talkative today. Normally you’re just resigned to one word.”

Big Mac rubbed the back of his grain-covered head. “Normally Ah’m not much of a talker, but seein’ as how you and the Miss were arguing here…”

“Oh, no, we’re not in a relationship,” Artifex quickly insisted. “We’re just friends.”

“That so? Then what were you arguing over?”

“Ah, well, Ink here… she can get a bit excited over…” His voice trailed. “Over… um, Ink?”

Ink, meanwhile, didn’t realize that she was staring at Big Mac. She took in his muscular form, his bright, green eyes, and she played in her head his deep, deep voice. Something began to fall into place.

She suddenly stood. “Um, excuse me. Who exactly are you?”

He turned to her. “Macintosh Apple, miss Ink.”

“We call him Big Mac for short,” said Artifex.

“Uh huh.” She took a breath. “Well, Artifex and I… we were just discussing a problem I’m having.”

“What kind of problem, miss Ink?”

“Just Ink is fine. You see, I’m trying to… write something. A novel.” The words came quickly now; she didn’t care that she was talking to a complete stranger, just that she was talking to someone else, hoping for a different perspective. “And I don’t know how to start.”

Big Mac nodded. “Mm. Well, that does seem to be a problem, Ink.”

“It is, it really is! And Artifex here—” She paused, turned to him, and shrugged. “Thank you for trying, Artifex, but I just don’t know if your suggestion is gonna work!”

“I tried, at least.”

“Tried what?” Mac asked.

“I thought it would be a good idea to try and ‘learn’ people again. That is, try to more… engross herself with how people act. You know, get a live example and all.”

Big Mac probably did not know, and Ink could not blame him; it was a strange suggestion. Artifex saw their bewildered expressions; he winced. “All right, it was a bit farfetched.”

“Eenope.”

They both turned to him. “No? It isn’t?” Artifex asked.

Big Mac shook his head. “Well, it depends on the kind of novel, right?”

“Right,” said Ink. “Um, it’s a romance novel.”

“Well, Ah’d imagine you can learn a lot about writing people by, as Artifex said, ‘learning’ them. But if you want the romance side of things, then you’d want to learn romance.”

“Okay? So?”

“So—” At this, Big Mac paused to crack his back; “—why not ask some couples for advice?”

Ink’s brain momentarily stopped. “Ask… couples?”

“Hmm.” Artifex nodded slowly. “Yeah, that could work. I mean, we already know several, don’t we? You could build a fantasy relationship off of what they have to say. If you base it on real-world couples and romance, it’d certainly be realistic.”

Ink began to shake. “That’s… that’s…”

“It’s just a thought,” Big Mac said with a shrug. “An’ it’s yer novel, so you do it how you want it—”

“That’s perfect!”

She grabbed Big Mac’s shoulders and fiercely shook him. “Oh my God, that is the best idea ever! Big Mac, you are a freakin’ genius! Aah!”

“Ink!” Artifex stood. “Calm down, girl! You’re gonna make him dizzy!”

“There’s no time to be calm! I gotta get onto this pronto!” But she did let go, and Big Mac did not look worse for wear, only confused. “God, you are a lifesaver, Big Mac, and I just met you!”

She dug around her purse and took out some dollars, and she thrust them into Artifex’s hands. “Here! This should cover the cost. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go before this idea leaves me behind!”

“Ink, wait—”

It was too late; she was gone in an indigo puff of smoke.

Artifex sighed. “Yeah, I guess I should have seen that coming.”

Big Mac raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure that’s not your girlfriend?”

“Of course I’m sure, Big Mac.” He paused. “Thank you, though, seriously. Ink needed something like that.”

Pinkie came back around with an assortment of goodies, and she handed them over to Mac. “Aw!” she exclaimed to Artifex. “Is she gone?”

“Yeah. Here.” He gave her the money. “Don’t worry, Pinkie. You’ll definitely see her in school. And thanks to our big, tall friend here,” he added, “she’ll probably be looking for you, too.”

“Ooh! Sounds exciting!”

She went back to the register to help another customer. Artifex turned back to Big Mac. “Thanks again. Never expected you’d have any idea how to write romance.”

The older boy blushed. “Um, well…”

Artifex raised his hands in surrender. “Hey, no need to tell me.” His eyes twinkled. “I’m just glad you helped my friend out.”

“Eeyup. Tell her I wish her good luck.”

“I will. Take care, Big Mac.”

Chapter Three: A Class of Help

He looked at her and for a moment she lived in the bright blue worlds of his eyes, eagerly and confidently.

These were not Ink’s words. They were the words of another author, long dead, but still alive in his works that stood the test of time. It had been these words that had sparked Ink’s thirst for the romance genre; it had detailed so cleanly, so simply, the youthfulness of one, young child actress as she fell in love with a man much more refined and much more experienced.

Ink aspired to be much like that writer, even though she knew reasonably that not many could top him. Not many could top that entire generation of writers, anyway; they were two generations behind yet years ahead of them, and they knew the core of the human spirit like no one else did or ever could.

Ink ran those words through her mind over and over again, partly because she loved them, partly because she thought they were a good sentence together to remember. It may not have been the first sentence of that particular novel, but it was the first sentence that confirmed the start of a love affair.

That Monday morning, December 8th, she decided was a good morning to try something like that: the first sentence to start the story of a burgeoning relationship. After she’d eaten breakfast and had prepped for school, she took out her notebook. It was filled with various scripts, scenes, half-sentences and full sentences, none of which connected or tried to make a cohesive story. She sat down on her bed and began to experiment.

She was drowning in his sea of green.

“No, that’s too morbid.”

The moment they locked eyes, she knew he was the one.

“That sounds cliche…”

She knew she loved him; he didn’t.

“That could work…”

She tried a dozen of those sentences; only some felt they had some substance to them. By the time she’d crossed out the twelfth one, she’d noticed that it was nearing the time for the bus to arrive.

“I guess this’ll have to wait till later,” she murmured.

But she couldn’t feel down for long. After all, today was the day she’d begin her (quickly, she searched for the best term) “case study,” or, in this case, her “couples study.” Artifex had agreed to see if he could convince his friends who were in a relationship to offer her their advice. She thought she could get someone else’s help, too, but she refrained from thinking anything definitive until she knew for certain. Briefly she wondered if she ought to ask people who were single what they thought had to go in a relationship, but then she dismissed the thought entirely; what could they know, since they were like her, single and ready to mingle (and torture herself with writing?)

She closed her notebook and grabbed her belongings. Her novel’s potential first sentences rang through her head as she raced out the door.

It was cold. She’d expected as such. Her down jacket kept her warm enough, but the wind was bitter and it bit at her nose and cheeks. Her face flushed. She walked with her hood up, a scarf wrapped snugly around her neck, and she wondered if she should invest in some of those balaclava masks or a ski mask or some sort of face-covering. Her lilac skin could only take so much, after all.

She walked up to the bus stop and waited there, her breath coming out as nebulous clouds. There was no one else at her stop, as was usual. She wouldn’t have minded the company.

The bus came quickly, rolling on muddy wheels and looking at least a decade old. It lurched as it came to a stop. She got on it and made her way to the back and sat down; then the bus took off. It would be a good twenty minutes before she got to school.

She watched the world through her window. The snow-covered trees and signs and homes became blurry manifestations of themselves. There were some people on the sidewalks, wrapped in their winter clothes; she could not see their faces. Some people had out Christmas decorations already, reminding her again of how close the holiday was. She tried to open her mind, to let the environment around her flow into her, but that was hard to do because the radio was loud and it wasn’t playing any sort of ambient music and the students around and in front of her were all loud and that was annoying—

The bus hit the brakes so hard she was slammed face-first into the seat in front of her. She pulled back and felt her face; nothing seemed broken, but tears had reflexively gathered in her eyes. She wiped them away, muttering a low remark, something about how “I could drive better than this…”

She leaned back, propping her legs up so that she wouldn’t be propelled forward, and she looked out the window again, saw the world, and tried to force herself to be inspired.

But the windows blocked whatever winds of creativity there might have been from entering.

Maybe I’ll find inspiration here, she thought as she disembarked off the bus. Canterlot High loomed ahead. Its doors were open and students from various backgrounds pooled into it. She caught a glimpse of Artifex on the way in, his yellow jacket flashing; he was gone before she had thought to call for him.

I’ll see him in first block anyway.

The school had salted the land so that the snow would more easily melt. Careful not to slip, Ink walked ahead, doing her best not to bump into anyone along the way. “ ‘Scuse me, pardon me, excuse me,” she muttered.

Her efforts were, however, not completely without fault. Someone slipped next to her, and she had to half-jump out of the way, and she bumped into someone taller than her. They both grunted and fell out of the crowd.

Ink was the first on her feet. “Oh, gosh, I am so sorry! Wait…” Her face scrunched up; then her eyes widened. “Big Mac?”

Much like how he was on Saturday, he was not dressed in any particularly heavy clothes. Save for a green scarf that was wrapped around his neck, he appeared more-or-less the same. Recognition shone in his ripe-green eyes. “Eeyup. Howdy, Ink.”

She helped him to his feet, though, seeing how big and muscular he was, she doubted he really needed her help. “Sorry about that,” she repeated, rubbing the back of her head sheepishly.

“ ‘S no problem,” Mac said, giving her a kind smile. “Hope Ah didn’t hurt ya.”

“Don’t worry, you didn’t.” She paused. She didn’t like that she paused; it was too sudden and too awkward and this silence was too heavy so she thought she ought to fill that silence— “Um, listen,” she forced herself to say. “Th-thanks again for, you know, that suggestion of yours. The one you gave at the Corner.”

She thought she saw a light pinkness to his cheeks, but seeing his skin was peach-colored, there probably wasn’t anything there. “Ya already thanked me,” he said.

“Oh.” Great; a writer, speechless. “U-uh, I’m gonna do it today. It. The thing. The suggestion. Your suggestion. Yeah.” If she wasn’t already red-cheeked from the cold, now she was sure her face was like a tomato.

But Big Mac didn’t seem to mind. He nodded to her. “That’s good. Hope it goes well.”

“Y-yeah.”

Another silence. Another bout of silent, personal cursing. It was broken seconds after—too many seconds after, she thought—by the bell.

“Uh, I guess I, uh, gotta go. Yeah. Um… talk to you later?”

Mac blinked, then smiled. “Sure thing, Ink.”

“A-awesome. Uh—bye!”

She didn’t offer a handshake, much less a wave, and she only realized that by the time she was going up the steps. She turned to rectify that mistake, but he was already gone. She sighed, not sure why she felt so disappointed by that. Way to go, Ink…

That disappointment only continued to grow and compound even as her first class neared its end. Amidst the room full of students diligently working on an assignment, Ink found her thoughts pressing terribly against her mind. They pooled around, slowly and hot, like lava coming richly from an erupting volcano. They threatened to spill out all over the paper in long, flowing strokes of black ink, spilling left to right, up and down, until—of this she was certain—they’d cover the entire page with nothing but smudges and half-coherent sentences.

No one noticed her growing frustration, her anxiety, her growing sense of becoming over-encumbered by herself. Not even Artifex but, to be fair, he was two seats away from her. She was praying for the bell to ring so that she might escape; she hated being cooped up at a desk, not her desk—because that was different somehow—and having her thoughts always keeping her on edge. She couldn’t even remember what the assignment was or had been or what it was supposed to be.

When the bell did mercifully ring, it seemed so far away. She had to literally gasp for breath to bring her back from the brink. This time, Artifex noticed, as did a girl who sat between them.

“Huh?” the girl asked as Artifex made his way over. “What’s up with you?”

Ink recognized her as Rainbow Dash, the main guitarist of their school’s signature band (aptly named The Rainbooms, winner of the last and only Battle of the Bands, yada-yada-yada). “Oh, it’s, um, nothing, Rainbow.”

“That didn’t look like ‘nothing.’ ” This, predictably, was from Artifex, who stood a little ways in front of her. “Still frustrated?”

“Frustrated?” Rainbow asked. “Well, I guess this assignment was kind of hard…”

There were still students packing up to leave, and Ink was desperate to join them. She stood, closing her books and binder, pushing them into her backpack, praying they’d stay silent or at least that her thoughts would.

“But not too hard,” Artifex said. “I mean, it’s just the rough draft.”

“Well, you’d find that stuff easy,” Rainbow replied.

“So would Ink here, usually.”

Oh, God, why did he have to say that? Why did his gaze have to pierce her so easily? Why did he have to see when she felt troubled?

Ink let out a groan—it was louder than she’d expected, filled with disgust (a rather unhealthy amount), and she covered her face in shining embarrassment.

“Is everything okay over there?” Mr. Solil called.

Mr. Solil. I’ll have to keep him in mind. “Yeah, we’re good!” she called back, trying to sound reassuring.

Rainbow now stood, giving her a worrisome look. “Ink, you sure you’re okay? You’ve been in a pretty crappy mood as of late.”

Artifex grunted. “Not the way I would have put it. She’s not crappy, Rainbow; she’s frustrated.”

“Yeah?” Rainbow paused. “Is it… you know—”

“No!” Ink protested. “No, that’s not until—nevermind that. Look, Rainbow, it’s nothing, and even if it were something, I don’t think you’d be able to help.”

“What?! Why not?”

“It’s just… you’re… you, and this… this needs not you.”

“Ink,” Artifex chided, “you need all the help you can get.”

“She’s not dating anyone, though!”

“Neither am I.”

“Which is why I’m not turning to you for advice on romance!”

Rainbow cut in, “Whoa, whoa. What’s this about romance?”

Oh, God damn it. “N-nothing—”

“Ink, come on,” Artifex said. “You really don’t need to be embarrassed about this. We’re all friends here.”

The room was quickly emptying, and Ink could hear the pounding of footsteps as other students approached. Artifex noted her noticing. “We’ll continue this outside,” he said, before walking—cane in hand—out, and Rainbow followed after him.

Ink got out of her seat and made her way to the door, but she stopped, getting caught in the pensive gaze of Mr. Solil. He regarded her silently, and she gulped, not sure why she felt nervous. After all, this was Mr. Solil, one of the nicest teachers in the school. He didn’t say anything, though; he nodded, a sign she was free to go, and she offered a cordial wave in return before finally stepping out.

Now re-joined outside, they trudged through the hall, cutting through the crowd as best they could. “So you gonna tell us what’s up?” Rainbow asked.

Ink took a deep breath. “Yeah, sorry for exploding on you, Rainbow.” The athlete waved her off, and she continued, “See, I’m having trouble writing my romance novel; I can’t get the right words out. And Artifex and Big Mac—”

“Whoa, whoa, hold up. Big Mac? Giving you advice on romance?”

“We met him in Sugarcube Corner on Saturday,” Artifex explained. “He was getting stuff for Granny Smith.”

“Anyway,” Ink said, “basically they said I should ‘study’ people more. Don’t give me that look; yes, I know, it sounds dumb. But it might work. I hope it works.”

“Study how?” Rainbow asked. They rounded a corner.

Ink fought her blush down and said, “W-well, I was gonna go around and ask the school’s couples for advice… not, like, relationship advice! I mean, like—” She paused, running her hands through her short hair. “I guess their thoughts on what a relationship is. Y’know? Like… what love is, or, like how you know you’re in love. Things that would make a fictional romance real, y’know?”

Rainbow said she did know, and she added that she could help out if Ink wanted. “I know a lot of people in a relationship; in fact, Artifex and I have the same friend group. So, if you want, you could come by during lunch today and we could getcha started on a, whaddyacallit, ‘interview.’ ”

Ink turned to her. “Really? You mean it?”

“Sure! Anything to help a friend!”

It was then, though, that Artifex and Rainbow had to leave; their classes were on the next floor. “Feel free to stop by,” Artifex said to Ink as he and Rainbow bounded up the steps.

“Y-yeah! I will!” she called. “Thank you!”

She said it a bit late. They were already gone from her view. She felt a bit embarrassed at her late response, but figured that was okay; they heard her, probably. She twirled on her heels and walked the opposite way.

Chapter Four: An Interview

Ink’s next class was Physics. It wasn’t her favorite course and the teacher, Mr. Time Turner, while a nice guy, just couldn’t give a proper lesson, or at least one that she felt actually taught her something without having her mind implode.

Though it was a class she nonetheless looked forward to, since there were people there she knew and with whom she was friends. She liked them and they seemed to like her and that was all that mattered.

But they were a weird bunch, Ink knew that.

“Oh, look! It’s that new girl who that one author decided to make up as a personal challenge!” an orange-haired girl with pigtails greeted from one of the tables. She wiped a hand over her navy-blue jacket, as if removing dust. Unsatisfied with just that action, she proceeded to run her hands over her light-red skirt.

Ink walked over, rolling her eyes. “Hi, Gaige. Nice to see you’re just as crazy as ever.”

There was another girl at their table, one whom Ink had known only for a little while, and one whom she considered just as crazy as Gaige, if not more. She nonetheless rocketed out of her seat and ensnared Ink in a bone-crushing hug, her green sweater sleeves snug against Ink’s back.. “Inky! You made it!”

“Hazel… please… can’t… breathe!”

“Hazel, let go!” Gaige cried. Despite her short stature, she managed to grab Hazel around the torso and attempted to pry her off of Ink. “You can’t kill the new character just yet!”

She finally did let go. Her glasses were crooked and her brown hair was a bit frazzled, but her toothy grin demonstrated her carefree attitude… about most things, at least.

Ink took a moment to find her breath. “Nice to see you, too, Hazel,” she managed to say.

She put her stuff down and sat in the remaining seat. A bunch of other students pooled in from the door, and they took their respective seats, chatty and loud. Mr. Turner was collecting and organizing his lecture notes for today; someone, Ink managed to hear over the chatter, was playing one of those silly pocket games on their phone, and they were making a big deal over it.

“So,” Hazel said, still grinning ear-to-ear, “what’s up, Ink? Haven’t heard much from you over the weekend.”

“Still talking to that Artifex dude?” Gaige asked.

Hazel squealed at the mention. “Ohmigosh, you two should totally—”

“No!” Ink shouted. “We are just friends, nothing more, nothing less!”

“Aw, but it’d be so cool! You’re both writers, and writers are like the most romantic people!”

Gaige blinked. “They are?”

Ink gritted her teeth. Oh, how she’d forgotten how much these two could rile up in all the right and wrong ways. “The point is,” she said, “Artifex and I are just friends. Sorry, Hazel.” She paused for a moment, thinking. “Besides. Artifex’s got a crush of his own.”

“He what?!” the other two girls shouted. A few heads turned their way, but other than that, no one seemed inclined to interrupt, much less listen in. “That baka?” Gaige stared, dumbfounded. “How?”

“Who is it?” Hazel asked. “You gotta tell me! Please!”

“Ah-ah,” Ink said, waving a finger. “I think I’ve said enough. You want to know, you ask him yourself.”

“But he doesn’t even like me that much!” she wailed.

“Maybe that’s because you and he haven’t talked one-on-one. I think you’ve just kinda been in the background for him.” Ink pointed at Gaige. “Heck, he and Gaige don’t like each other, and yet they’ve still had more than one conversation!”

“I like his cat,” Gaige muttered. “Francis is a very nice and smart cat.”

The topic of conversation remained on the relationship between Ink and Artifex for far longer than she would have preferred, and she was momentarily grateful when Mr. Turner asked the class to turn their attention to the board so they could begin the day’s lesson. They all took out their binders and papers and pencils as he opened up the presentation. Ink’s gratefulness evaporated, though, the moment it began and confronted by an onslaught of rapid-fire equations and concepts, she felt her mind begin to turn off the light.

To keep herself awake, she scribbled some words down next to her papers. They were mostly ramblings, distant thoughts for a distant time; she was trying to piece together something coherent with things so awfully separate. It kept her busy and occupied, and while she missed some of the notes, she thought she could get them from her friends later on in the day if she needed.

The lesson dragged. Try as she might to distract herself, she began to feel the familiar drooping of her eyelids. The room blinked from colorful to black, and the black grew and grew. Mr. Turner didn’t notice, or he didn’t care—Ink didn’t know what and wasn’t sure she could bother. Her hand’s movements slowed considerably.

Mercifully, though, the lesson ended, and now they could move on to the actual activity. Hazel tried tapping Ink on the shoulder; she didn’t respond; her head had fallen over. In the blackness of boredom, she did not see Gaige’s arms reach around into her backpack.

Bam!

“Fwa!”

Ink jerked up, throwing up all of her papers and her pencil. The other students heard her and gave her perplexed looks. She blinked rapidly, before managing an uneasy grin. “Uh, I’m okay. Just, uh… muscle spasm.”

“Muscle spasms?” Mr. Turner came over. “Is that right?”

“Uh… yeah!” she said. “Yeah. It’s, like, super, totally, completely random. Sporadic. Spontaneous. Out-of-nowhere. Y’know?”

He gave her a look filled with scrutiny. But he did seem to buy it. “All right. Well, in that case, you ought to see the nurse later.”

Her eyes widened, and she tried to save face. “O-oh, no! There’s no need for that! I’m fine, really!”

But it was too late. Mr. Turner had gone back to his desk and was dialing the nurse’s number. It was a lost cause.

Ink sighed. She turned back to her friends. Hazel was doing her best not to chuckle, while Gaige had on a self-satisfied smirk. “Thanks a lot,” she muttered.

Gaige rolled her eyes. “Stupid. I woke you up, didn’t I? It’s not my fault you came up with a dumb excuse like that.”

“But I don’t like nurse! She’s so strict and uptight!”

“You should have thought of that when you came up with those muscle spasms.” Gaige shook her head, then grabbed one of the activity sheets. “Now, come on, let’s at least get this stuff done.”

“Easy for you to say,” Ink grumbled. “You’re actually semi-good at this stuff.”

“Ink!” Mr. Turner called. “The nurse will see you after this class, all right?”

“All right. Thank you!” Then she grumbled something incomprehensible.

As they were working, Hazel took notice of the papers that had fallen to the floor. Before Ink could even think to stop her, she bent down and picked them up, and began sorting through them. Ink saw the familiar, wide-eyed look that always predated a squeal. Her eyes went to the papers; they were the ones with her scribbles.

Ink’s heart near-stopped. “Hazel, wait—”

“OH MY GOSH INK WHAT IS THIS?!”

“Shh, shh! Hazel, please—”

“ ‘Her heart was beating so fast it threatened to burst from her chest, and if it did, she’d have gladly given it to that straw-hat boy!’ ‘It felt like they were the only ones on the floor that mattered!’ ‘He had an enticing personality, that drew people in and convinced them that they were, in some way, important to him!’ … and a whole bunch of random words!”

“Hazel, I swear to God—”

“You’re writing a romance story!”

Ink cringed. She felt all eyes settle on her. She wanted to knock Hazel out or melt into the floor, and she knew she couldn’t do either.

“EEEEEEEE—”

“Miss Hazel?” Mr. Turner interrupted. “If you could please not disrupt the class with your enthusiastic squealing?”

She wasn’t listening. Luckily, Gaige was just as annoyed as Ink was mortified, and she clapped a hand around Hazel and dragged her back down to the desk. Her voice became muffled; her enthusiasm, however, remained.

“You know,” the orange-haired girl said, “I don’t recall Hazel being this quickly annoying in my story.”

Eventually, despite giving Ink confused looks over their shoulders, the students went back to the activity at hand.

Ink let out a sigh of relief. Gaige, after a moment, released Hazel. She bore eye-daggers into the girl’s head, silently warning her not to have another freak out. “Good?” she asked.

“Mmhmm.”

“Awesome.” Gaige turned to Ink; she paused, taking a deep breath. “Now… you’re writing a romance story?”

Ink knew Gaige wasn’t being that loud, but under the strain of embarrassment and anxiety, she still sounded enormous and frightening. “Y-yeah.”

“Huh. Coolio.” She went back to her work, filling out the sheet, as Ink slowly blinked. The nervousness and frantic excitement slowly evaporated from her mind, replaced with the scritch-scratch of pencils.

“... you know, I guess I should have expected that,” she muttered.

Gaige heard her. She shot Ink a surprisingly harsh look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“W-well, it’s just… I thought you’re not into that stuff?”

“B-baka! I’m dating Brad! … Oh, God, just saying that made me feel sick…”

“That’s why I thought that! You don’t like him!”

“Then why am I dating him?”

“To fulfill my ship!”

“SHUT UP, HAZEL!”

“Besides, you two are so cute together—”

“HAZEL! I WILL CUT YOU!”

“But you don’t like him, right?”

“Ink! Just because Brad’s annoying and clingy and weird and stupid doesn’t mean I don’t like him!”

“So you do like him! EEEEEE—”

“HAZEL!”

“GAIGE!”

“INK!”

“JARVY I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU DON’T STOP THIS MADNESS—”

“Would you three please stop disrupting the class?!” Mr. Turner shouted over them. “Or I will send you all down to the principals’ office!”

They hushed up, faces bright-red, voices exhausted, tempers extinguished. “Sorry, Mr. Turner,” Ink said, sheepish.

“Normally you three aren’t this loud,” he continued. “Is there something you want to share with the class?”

Hazel opened her mouth; Ink reached around and cupped her face. “N-nope! Of course not. Why would we? Ehehehe…”

Mr. Turner did not look convinced. After a seemingly-hour-long staring contest, he relented and shook his head. “All right. Can we all please focus on this activity?”

“Yes, Mr. Turner,” the class responded.

Ink returned to her paper, her friends carefully avoiding her gaze. She made sure to do the same.

For twenty minutes—which left about 40 minutes left in class—it was silent at their table. It was the kind of silence that was both heavy and light, like it weighed a ton but could also be popped by merely glaring into it. Or in this case, whispering.

As Gaige and Ink diligently worked (with the latter trying to keep up with all the numbers and concepts), Hazel began sidling over. She was so quiet and careful that Ink didn’t even notice she was there, not until she thought she felt someone breathing in her ear.

“So what’s it about?” Hazel whispered.

Ink managed not to jump, but she was sure her hair just shot out like she’d been electrified. “Hazel, what the hell?!”

“I mean your romance story!”

“Look, can’t you just drop it?”

Hazel gasped. “Of course not! Romance is my expertise!”

“I thought being annoying was your expertise,” Gaige muttered from the other side.

“Gaige,” Ink chided; but he did not go further. She turned back to Hazel; her gaze would not hold; she looked side-to-side to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “And it’s about none of your business, that’s what.”

“Come on, Ink! You can’t just leave us hanging here!”

“I’m not leaving you hanging; I’m not even giving you a piece of rope.”

“Those words on that paper were bait enough!” Hazel leaned forward on her elbows, eyes sparkling dangerously. Ink got the feeling that if she did anything but agree, she was dead. “So spill already! I want to know all of the juicy details!”

“Well, see, that’s the problem, Hazel… there are none.”

She saw Hazel blink, slowly. Her smile fell; her eyes lost that innocent shine. She thought she saw her eyelid twitch. One of her strands of hair shot out straight like a needle. “W… what do you mean?” she asked.

Ink carefully leaned back. “Um… would you be mad if I told you I… haven’t exactly started writing yet?”

Now she knew for certain that Hazel’s eyelid twitched; in fact, it was twitching as she realized this. “W-what?” Hazel spluttered.

Gaige looked up, eyeing the two of them with unease. Ink slowly raised both of her hands in surrender.

“Uh… I have some… writer’s… block… sorry?”

“W-w-writer’s block? But-but—”

Hazel grabbed the papers with Ink’s scrawled handwriting on them. She held them up with trembling hands. “But you wrote these words! These sentences!”

“Yeah, but they aren’t really anything else,” Ink said. “They’re just… caricatures. There’s no substance, no story. I wouldn’t even call them characters at this point.”

“But you have characters!” Hazel insisted. “Please, you have to tell me everything! What’s their favorite color? Their favorite food? Favorite person? Oh, please let it be each other! How long have they been dating? Are they married? Are they gonna get married? Please let them get married! I can see the babies now! What are their names? Can I ship them? Of course I can! Now I just need a good ship name. Oh, can I like get a deal since I’m your best friend so I can buy it for half price? Thank you!”

“Hazel!” Ink hissed. “Be. Quiet! I don’t want Mr. Turner yelling at us again!”

“I can’t help it!” Hazel fiercely whispered back. “You’re writing a romance story, Ink! A romance story! You! The girl without a boyfriend!”

Ink blushed. “You don’t have one, either!”

“Yeah, but I’m not the one writing romance without a hint of experience!”

“How does shipping people at all count as ‘experience?!’ ”

“It’s still more than what you have!”

Ink groaned. “God, now I almost wish we were still talking about Artifex and me.”

“We can if you want—”

“Forget it.” She took a deep breath, collecting her thoughts. Hazel was still grinning madly, and Gaige peered at them with a slightly bored look. “Maybe you’re right,” she conceded finally.

“She’s right?” Gaige asked.

“In a way, yeah. I mean, I don’t have any experience in romance. Maybe… maybe I need that to… you know… write romance.”

“And that’s what I’m here for!” Hazel said. She scooched over, wrapped an arm around Ink’s shoulder, and pulled her close. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Ink! Hazel’s got this!”

“I don’t think Hazel has the right to speak in third-person just yet,” the girl retorted, wriggling out of Hazel’s grip. “Besides… I’m gonna need help in more than just shipping.”

“Obviously! That’s why Gaige is going to help, too!”

“Wait, what—”

“Duh! Gaige, you’re the only girl in our little group of three that has a boyfriend. So that totally makes you a resident expert!”

Gaige gave her a flat look. “Hazel. Don’t be dumb.”

“Well, it makes some sense,” Ink said, causing Gaige to turn her fierce gaze upon her. “Maybe there’s something you know that we don’t about romance.”

She then blinked. “Actually… this fits into what I wanted to do today, now that I think about it.”

“Which is?” asked Hazel.

“W-well, in order to get a better idea of what goes into a relationship, I was gonna ask some of the school’s couples what they thought. It was Big Mac’s idea—”

“Hang on,” Hazel interrupted. “Big Mac? You mean Applejack’s brother? He’s helping you?”

“Well, yeah. Artifex is, too, since he’s, you know, friends with most of the couples. Is there something wrong with that?”

“Since when did Big Mac have any interest in romance?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s just being a nice guy, Hazel. He just wanted to help me out.”

At this, the girl’s expression became clouded, like she was deep in thought. Ink blinked. “Um, Hazel?” She snapped her fingers in front of her; there was no visible response. “Hello? Earth to Hazel? … Did she just shut down?”

Then, all of a sudden, she returned, beaming, with no trace of cloudiness left behind. “Oh, that’s good. Anyway, we should really get back to helping you out. You said you wanted to ask some of the school’s couples? Well, there’s Gaige, right there. Why don’t you start with her?”

“Huh?” So fast and so sharply had Hazel’s demeanor shifted from obsessive to genuinely helpful that Ink had to take a moment to process it all. Even Gaige was caught off-guard.

“Um, okay, then,” Ink said. She turned to Gaige, and hesitated. “Wait… like, right now?”

“Sure!” Hazel said. “I mean, we’ve got time!”

“We’re in the middle of physics,” Gaige reminded her.

“That’s not as important as this!”

“But—”

“Go on, Ink! I’ll cover for you!”

“What do you mean, ‘cover’—”

Hazel suddenly grabbed both her and Ink’s papers, placed them in front of her, and furiously began to fill them out. It was almost inspiring, the way she scribbled down and finished calculation after calculation—though Ink could not tell if any of them were right. She looked at Gaige; her mouth was locked open, and she had stopped writing long ago.

Though Hazel had now opened a door for Ink, the problem was, she had no idea what to say or how to conduct this interview. Her mind drew a blank on whatever questions she could have asked. Gaige herself did not seem eager to help, and who could blame her? And Ink didn’t want to impose, especially during class, so maybe it was better she just stay quiet and—

“Get going!” Hazel hissed. “Before class ends!”

She looked at the clock; they had a little less than a half-hour left. That was still plenty of time for—

Seeing Hazel’s absolutely livid gaze made Ink push that thought away. She turned back to Gaige. Her tongue flopped around, no sounds coming out. Where to begin?

Gaige looked at her expectantly, but seeing as how Ink appeared silent, she shrugged, and went back to her work.

“H-how did you and Flash get together?” Ink blurted.

Gaige looked up, frowning. “Seriously? That’s your first question?” Ink noticed that she was blushing.

She swallowed her nervousness. “Y-yes. It’s an important one.”

The orange-haired girl rolled her eyes. “Fine. Baka, you’re lucky you’re my friend; otherwise I wouldn’t be telling you any of this.”

Gaige laced her fingers together, then pushed them out, cracking them, like she was about to set to work on a very difficult project. “And I am!” she yelled to the sky. Ink gazed at her, confused. Gaige sighed. “Forget it. Anyway…”

“... and that’s how Equestria was made,” Gaige finished finally. She crossed her arms, appearing smug, ignorant of the amount of bewilderment on Ink’s face. “Any questions?”

Ink tried to mentally shake the cobwebs loose. Gaige had gone on several tangents tangent, talking about her “story” (whatever that was), her brother Treble’s “story,” and then some random tale about that land beyond the magic portal that lay in the front of Canterlot High. She tried to look at least a bit interested, abolishing the deer-in-the-headlights look in favor of a neutral, pensive one. She didn’t want to show that she’d zoned out in the middle.

Hazel sat next to them, still scribbling away on both her and Ink’s papers. She’d piped up now and then during Gaige’s recounting, mostly to squeal or make a comment (to which Gaige was always annoyed and threatened to bop her in the head for another remark about “how cute you were together!”). The rest of the class remained diligently pressed to their activity, and Mr. Turner, thankfully, did not seem keen on bringing attention to the girls.

“Ink? Hello?” Gaige asked again. Her eyes narrowed. “Were you even listening?”

“Eep! I mean, yes! I was!” Ink sat up a little straighter. “A-and I have questions, yes! Um… can I—”

“Fine, go ahead.” Gaige sighed. “But make them quick.”

“R-right.” She peered over the few notes she’d taken, thinking back on what was said. “So that’s it? You and Flash met, you didn’t like him at first, he liked you, you became friends, then you found yourself falling in love, and you denied your feelings, and then you went on a date, then some more, and all the while it was a ‘will-they-won’t-they’ scenario?”

“Well—”

“And then you finally both admitted to liking the other and decided to give being a couple a shot? And then you became really hesitant, and Flash became… what was the word… a ‘baka of a baka?’ Which I take is a bad thing?”

“I mean, it is a bad thing—”

“So you two broke up, or rather, you told Flash you weren’t ready, and he got mad, and then you broke up? And then that British kid, what was his name—”

“Nylon.”

“Right, Nylon; he tried to get with you, and you entertained that idea, but then you realized that you wanted to be with Flash, so you told Neon, and he politely agreed, so you had a mutual break-up with him, and then you went and found Flash, and the two of you made up, got back together, bringing you to here?”

“And that’s how Equestria was made,” Gaige added, a bit dryly. She flicked her head, pigtails flying. “Thanks for regurgitating everything I just said, Ink; it’s like I was really there.”

Ink blushed. “But I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, I guess so. That’s pretty much how it happened. Why? Surprised?”

“Well, obviously. I’ve met and talked to Flash a few times. He’s a little weird—”

“Baka!”

“—but I guess he’s okay.”

“Good save.”

“Thank you. Still, I’m wondering…”

“What? Hurry up, geez; I don’t have all day.”

Ink ignored Gaige’s slightly whiny tone. “Is is always that… long-winded?”

“Huh?”

Ink sensed she’d touched upon a nerve, and was quick to elaborate: “I mean, you could have easily just admitted that you liked Flash, without having to put yourself through so much personal angst. Right? And it took how long before the two of you hooked up?”

“Nearly thirty chapters.”

“... right, however long that is. But it was a long time, right?”

Gaige shrugged. “Sure, I guess. I stopped noticing. Ragga’s got a sick sense of pacing, y’know?”

“No, I don’t know.” Ink sighed. “Look, I’m just wondering if all relationships are that… ‘draggy.’ Does it really take that long to confess feelings, or to realize you have feelings at all? Is it always like this?”

“Mine was,” Gaige muttered.

“And there’s nothing wrong with that!” Ink quickly said. “I just mean if there’s a certain… pacing that makes a relationship a good one. Is there a counter, a correct number of days, a week, two weeks, a month, a year, anything like that? Or…”

Ink paused, considering her next words. “Or do you just follow the path your heart creates, and hope you finish that journey in time?”

The table fell silent. The rest of the class continued working and writing. Ink fidgeted and squirmed, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, as Gaige’s and Hazel’s eyes were on her. She wasn’t sure how to break the silence—or if she even should.

Then Hazel leaned forward, placed an arm on Ink, and, smiling, said, “Write. That. Down.”

It took a little bit, but, despite feeling a bit overwhelmed, Ink took those words and inscribed them onto a piece of notebook paper. Somehow that made them feel more notable, more important. She couldn’t explain why.

When she looked up, she saw Gaige smiling. “Well, whaddyaknow?” she said. “Maybe there is hope for your romance story.”

Ink asked Gaige a few more questions, though most were for clarification purposes. She wrote a few more things down, too, though they were quick and brief notes that said little more than what she’d already figured out.

But the penmanship on paper felt reassuring; she had something tangible, however small, to hold in her hands. It was barely a start, but it was something; and in her experience, something was better than nothing.

“Thanks for the help,” she told Gaige when the bell finally did ring. “Both of you,” she added, causing Hazel to look up.

Hazel beamed. “No problem! Anything for a friend!” Then she got up to hand in their papers.

“So… what now?” Gaige asked. “Do I get the job or something?”

Ink giggled. “Now I have to go to my next class. After that, lunch. Possibly some more interviews. Oh, wait… the nurse’s, before all that.” She groaned. “Like that’s gonna be a lot of fun.”

“You’ll be fine,” Gaige said. “You’re tough. Sometimes, at least.”

“At least you have faith. Thanks again, Gaige.”

“Just give me credit, ya hear?!”

Ink was already gone, though; but Gaige’s words would be written in her heart and signed by her, so that she knew who to thank again when the time came.

Author's Notes:

Gaige belongs to Ragga_Muffin

Hazel belongs to sunbuttsparkle

Chapter Five: A Visit to the Nurse

The nurse’s office had a rather tame history, at least compared to the horror stories Ink had heard from other schools. Aside from the occasional scrape or bruising, and less often the fights that resulted in bleeding and swollen eyes, not much exceeded typical “roughhousing,” as Nurse Redheart had put it. To Ink’s knowledge, the more severe cases were when Artifex showed up on his first day and had his panic attack, Soul Writer’s broken arm, and one unfortunate incident of brainwashing and transformation leading to slight mental trauma. That one was on Sunset Shimmer, though the victims had long since forgiven her.

Tame as it was, it came as no surprise as Ink to find it seemingly empty of any other patients. Grainy-yellow curtains were pulled to one side, only slightly covering up the green, leather beds that were always so uncomfortable to rest on and clung to any open patches of skin like sticky vices. As a row of lights blinked and flickered from the ceiling, Ink heard the low, raspy sound of air conditioning blasting from a dark corner. Her mind went to a slightly darker place; if it were Halloween, she would have expected someone to have placed a fake spider in those corners. The moment the conditioner was turned on, it would jump out and attack someone.

One of the secretaries there, Miss Daybloom, was over at her desk, mulling over some files, and hadn’t heard Ink come in. Ink didn’t realize this at first. She stood at the entrance, hands clasped against her navy skirt, and she waited patiently. With the door closed behind her, the sound of students’ stomping their feet was muffled, like dull drums playing alongside a subdued orchestra.

Ink blinked, and mentally shook her head. She’d have to get out of the habit of monologuing real life so extravagantly.

Eventually, she realized that Daybloom hadn’t seen her. She politely cleared her throat.

“Huh?” Miss Daybloom looked up. Surprise flashed across her face, before it was replaced by cool neutrality. “Oh. Ink, is it?”

“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Turner called?”

“He did indeed. He said you had muscle spasms of some sort?”

She pushed aside the urge to turn guiltily away. “Uh, yeah! Something like that.”

“I see.” Miss Daybloom. “Well, you’re free to wait here for the moment. Nurse Redheart is busy in the back.”

“In the back? Why?”

“A student got hurt during gym. Sprained his ankle, from what I heard. She’ll be with you when she’s done.”

Ink thanked her and took a seat in one of the red lounge chairs. She crossed her legs and did her best to look everywhere but directly at Miss Daybloom. The silence was burdensome, but while Miss Daybloom didn’t seem to mind as she continued to sort through the files, Ink remained put, frozen in an awkward state of being.

There you go again; exaggerating for the sake of extravagance.

She heard voices. One was Redheart’s, calm and neutral, like a professional. The other was a boy’s, deep and stoic, but she could not tell to whom it belonged since it was muffled by a closed doors.

“All right,” she heard Redheart say, “I believe that ought to be it, then. You wait outside while I drum up some paperwork for you.”

The door cracked open, allowing Ink to hear a low, southern drawl come as a response. Her eyes widened. There were only a select few that had that particular accent. “Big Mac—”

“Ink Quill?”

“Eep!”

Nurse Redheart, despite her name and occupation, was a cold, cold lady—at least, that was what Ink thought, and it seemed to her she was the only one who thought that. The nurse had a certain aura to her that meant strictly no funny business was to be done around her, and as a result, her eyes, normally a calm blue, were, to Ink, reminiscent of northern, frozen waters. They were as sharp as icicles, too, boring holes right through Ink’s eyes and analyzing her mind. This all was contrasted by the amused eyebrow that Nurse Redheart now raised.

“Do you get a kick out of staring into space?” she asked Ink as she tried to recover.

“Um, no! No, of course not, heh heh, who would ever do such a thing?”

Ink tried to like Nurse Redheart; Artifex had told her she was a smart and quick lady. But that was his interpretation, and his was one based on the briefest of interactions. And Artifex naturally liked those characteristics. Ink, meanwhile, would have preferred not to have so many sharp-tongued people in her life.

Nurse Redheart shook her head. “Well, anyway. You’ll have to wait a few minutes. I have to finish some paperwork for this young man over there. Can you wait?”

“Uh, sure! Of course I can.”

She went into her office. She pulled some files from a cabinet, then clicked a few buttons on her computer. The printer beeped and papers began piling out.

Her back was turned away, so Ink decided to take this chance and got up. She was driven by a strange urge to get up and go, to see the boy in the other room, and she could feel a pool of questions drown her tongue. She hoped Miss Daybloom hadn’t noticed as she creeped into the room.

The moment she saw him, her mind went blank. She thought it was not—and she knew it was not—because of the fact that underneath his thin, black underarmor his muscles rippled, but it was because of the fact that his leg had gauze bandages wrapped all around it.

“Oh my God! Dude, what happened?” The words were out of her mouth before she’d realized that she was effectively invading upon his privacy.

Mac looked up, blinking slowly. “Oh. Hello, Ink. Thought you’d just come right in, didn’t ya?”

She ignored the little jest in his voice, despite finding it oddly pleasant. “Nevermind that. What happened to you? Why’s your leg all bandaged?”

“Gym,” he said, running a hand down his leg. “Playing basketball. Made a hard turn on the heel and twisted wrong, Ah guess. Nurse Redheart said Ah probably sprained it.”

Ink winced. “It does look like that happened. It’s all swollen.”

“Eeyup.” He groaned. “Of all the fool-brained things to do, and right when mah family needs my help the most!”

“Your family? What do you mean?”

She hadn’t consciously realized she’d taken a seat in the rolling stool by the wall. She sat there, comfortable and complacent, as one might feel when in one’s own home. Big Mac raised an eyebrow to this, but didn’t say anything.

“Well, with Ma and Pa gone,” he explained, “we’ve a lot less ‘young-blood’ able to help us on the farm, as Granny Smith puts it. Applejack, Apple Bloom, and I usually help, but with this in the way—” He tapped his leg, wincing; “—that’s gonna be a pain.”

Ink frowned. “What, are you usually carrying in the largest presents or something?”

“Eeyup,” he replied easily. “Ah buy a tree from downtown, drive it up to the farm mahself, and set it up.”

“Sounds tough.”

“It ain’t too bad. Y’get used to it after a while.”

Ink paused, tilting her head. The printer was still running, and Nurse Redheart and Miss Daybloom were still busy. She wondered what time it was; then she put that thought away.

“I sense there’s a ‘but’ in there,” she said with a light smile.

Mac laughed. “Yer awfully perceptive, Ink. Like that Artifex friend of yours.”

“Ha! Please; Artifex is so much more perceptive than me.”

“Yer right, though. Normally, even if Ah was injured like Ah am now, Applejack and Apple Bloom could handle the other chores. But Applejack is going out with her friends, as is Apple Bloom. So that leaves me an’ Granny by ourselves, and with this injury, it’ll pretty much be just Granny.”

“How bad is your injury?” she asked, curious.

In answer, he pulled the bandages down a little. Ink cringed at the sight. Everything from half of the calf down was red and swollen and puffy. “Wow. And that’s just from twisting your ankle funny?”

“Eeyup.” He offered a chuckle; he sounded embarrassed. “Goes to show you shouldn’t go all-out without warming up first.”

“I don’t know, Mac. You look pretty hot to me.”

The words were out of her mouth before she even had thought not to say them. As an awkward silence descended, she slowly realized what she had just said. A fearsome blush splashed across her face. Mac’s face was hard to read; she couldn’t tell if he was angry or upset.

“O-oh my gosh, I am so, so sorry!” she exclaimed. “That just—I just—I don’t even know where that came from! Oh, God, you must think I’m weird and we’re never going to look each other in the eye calmly ever again and—”

Booming laughter interrupted her, but it wasn’t booming like thunder. Rather, it was like the crash of the ocean’s waves, the sound of which carried for miles, and she was in a lighthouse looking at the wide, expansive mass before her. Mac slapped his good leg and was shaking and rumbling all over.

“Hoo-wee!” he finally said, once his laughter had subsided. “Well! Thank you kindly fer the compliment, Ink. Ah guess Ah am pretty heated.”

He… wasn’t mad?

Of course, you idiot! Why would he be mad? You just complimented him!

He was grinning at her, grinning like he had caught on to a joke that only he understood. “Ah have t’admit, Ink, never thought I’d hear that from you, of all people.”

“Uh… ehehe! Um, I never thought I’d hear that from myself!”

The two shared their laughter. Ink’s nervousness began to subside; for that, she was grateful. For some reason, she figured it would be awkward if she and Mac had gone forever onward stiff and uncertain around each other.

Now that’s a weird thought… But she didn’t know quite why.

Then, their laughter was interrupted by a quiet, yet stern “Ahem” coming from the door.

Ink eeped again, and in a rather high-pitched tone as well. This caused Mac to let out a loud guffaw, before he struggled to cover his mouth with a hand and stifle his laughter. Nurse Redheart’s eyebrow might as well have been a rocketship at this point, so high was it raised.

“Ink,” she said, “I don’t recall giving you permission to enter the room just yet.”

“Uh, uh, w-well, y’see… Big Mac here; he’s, uh, a friend! Yeah! And I was, y’know, worried about him and I wanted to check up on him. Yeah. That’s all. Nothing… nothing wrong with that, right?”

Nurse Redheart harrumphed. “I suppose compassion and worry are worthy incentives to bursting in on a patient. Do try to refrain from doing it in the future, though, dear. One patient, one doctor, unless there’s surgery involved. All right?”

“Aren’t you a nurse?”

“Ink.”

“Sorry, sorry! I’ll just, ah, wait outside… again…”

She did just that, stepping past Redheart and returning to the leathery seats. Miss Daybloom, without looking up, chuckled. “Got caught, did you? No surprise there. Redheart and I could hear you two laughing from all the way over here.” Her eyes twinkled, and she winked at Ink. “You two must be good friends.”

“Uh, yeah! Yeah, good friends.” Even though I’ve only really known him for a day or two…

She waited there for a little while as Nurse Redheart and Big Mac talked, probably over her. She fidgeted in her seat, still wanting to get up, but she sensed that doing so would earn her the nurse’s ire, if she hadn’t already. Miss Daybloom, she noticed, kept a careful eye on her, so she couldn’t get anywhere close to where Mac was.

Where Mac was…

Why did she want to get close to where Mac was?

Well, we didn’t really finish our conversation was the only answer she could come up with. Even then, it felt like it was missing something. She chose to put it out of her mind for the moment.

Eventually, the door opened, and Mac stepped out. His hands were full of paperwork and a pen. He nodded to Ink, and she nodded back, and he took a seat next to her. The paperwork was exactly what one would expect for getting such an injury; he had to sign a few things. Ink watched him for a little bit. He has surprisingly neat handwriting.

“Ink.”

It wasn’t a question; it was an order, from Nurse Redheart, one that she knew she ought to listen to. Resisting the urge to gulp, Ink got up and pressed down her skirt. “Coming,” she said.

She almost went through the doorway, but stopped. She cast a glance behind her, at Mac, and he nodded and smiled at her. She didn’t get to respond; Nurse Redheart was already closing the door. But that little gesture alone—it, for whatever reason, warmed her heart.

Admittedly, this was not the diagnosis that Ink had hoped for. Two possibilities had originally arisen in her mind when she was walking to the nurse’s office. One: that the nurse concluded she did have muscle spasms, and she would be forced to take a bunch of pills to regulate it. Or two: that the nurse concluded she did not have muscle spasms, and she’d be called out for lying to Mr. Turner and go down in history as the girl who faked muscle spasms to get out of Physics. Either option were not ideal, so she supposed this end result was the best one.

She came out of the office dwelling on this as Redheart went into her office to finalize some paperwork for her. Since her visit was shorter and less serious than Mac’s, there would be less paperwork to fill out, and she could do it at home. She watched Redheart print out the necessary files, before walking back over to the reception area.

Her eyes darted over the last phrase of the diagnosis, and she paused, feeling somehow empty because of it. The line about “parents” was upheaved in her mind and rolled around, before she pushed it away.

Mac was there, and he had finished his paperwork. He looked up and smiled. “Still scared?” he asked.

“Scared? Why would I be scared?” She knew she didn’t sound at all convincing, and she hoped Mac didn’t notice—

“You’ve got that wide-eyed look, like deer in the headlights,” he said. “Ah’ve seen it. Apple Bloom used to be like that, too.”

“Oh.” She sat down next to him, sighing. “Yeah, I guess I was a little scared. But only a little!”

“Ah believe ya.”

Nurse Redheart came out with all of the papers—they were in a neat stack—and handed them to Ink. “Have your parents fill this out,” she said. “Miss Daybloom, if you would, please.”

Miss Daybloom scribbled something down, twice, and handed something to the nurse. She peeled it, revealing two excused passes, and she gave one to each. “You can go now, she said, “and you’d better hurry, or you’ll miss the rest of your second block class.”

She paused. “One more thing. Wait here, Mac.”

She went into another room and came back with a pair of crutches. “So that you don’t put any more pressure on that ankle of yours,” she simply said. Big Mac accepted the crutches graciously.

Ink and Mac both got up and thanked the women for their service. Ink held opened the door for the older boy, and they walked out.

Not just out, though; out together. Ink only noticed this fact when Mac mentioned it.

“Oh! Um… so we are.”

“Is yer class on the same floor as gym?” he asked.

“Uh…” She had to think about that for a moment. “N-no, actually.”

“Oh. Well, then you’d better run along before yer late, like Nurse Redheart said.”

“O-oh, that’s okay!” she said, waving an arm aimlessly in front of her. “I-I don’t mind! A-and someone has to make sure that you don’t fall or anything!”

Big Mac looked a little sour, but it was probably his pride, she reasoned. “Wasn’t gonna fall,” he muttered.

Then his crutches skidded and he nearly did fall, had not Ink caught him. “Oof!” she exclaimed, nearly keeling over from his body’s weight. “Y-you okay, Mac?”

“E-eeyup,” he stuttered. She helped him stand back up. “S-sorry.”

“S’okay. Least you didn’t, ehe, knock me down and sprain my leg, too!”

They laughed at that. They were on the second floor, and gym was on the first, so they traveled to the nearest stairwell and went down it. Their steps echoed against hard flooring. Ink grew suddenly aware of the fact that they were the only two roaming the halls.

They emerged on the first floor and went down the hall, before crossing around a corner. They passed Mr. Solil’s class. Right next to the door was a bulletin board, displaying the Quotes project from October. Ink’s pace slowed so she could look at it. She hadn’t tried very hard on it—she did fairly well, a B, and she accepted it—and so it came as no surprise to her when her quote did not appear on that board. And it also came to no surprise to her that in the center, the winner was Artifex Frost, for, of all things, a custom quote—that is, one he had made up.

“You grow when you begin to live, learn, and love—day by day, moment by moment.”

“How is he?” Big Mac suddenly asked. She realized he’d stopped right beside her, and was also looking at the Quotes board.

“Huh?”

“Artifex. How is he?”

“Oh. He’s doing fine, I suppose. Definitely better than he was during the Fall Formal, from what I’ve been told.”

Mac nodded at that. “That’s good. He’s a nice guy once you get t’know him.”

“Yeah. He is.”

“You and he are pretty close.”

“Yeah, I guess we are.”

“You’d be a cute couple together.”

Ink spluttered. “W-what? Aw, not you, too, dude!”

Mac laughed that deep, rich laugh of his. “Ah’m just teasing ya, Ink. ‘Sides,” he added with a twinkle in his eye, “Ah’ve also seen the way he looks at a certain ex-Siren.”

“Oh? Ohh…” She smiled then. “Well, feel free to tease him about it. He likes that.”

“Somehow, Ah doubt that.”

They passed the Quotes board and went down the hall again. They were a little quiet, before Mac asked her, “So how’s the novel coming along?”

“It’s… not coming,” she said. “I, uh, only got one interview done today. With Gaige. Thanks for the idea, by the way.”

“You’ve already thanked me enough. How’d it go?”

“Eh. It was all right. Gaige is just crazy, y’know?”

“Not really. She and Ah haven’t really talked.”

“Oh. Right. But yeah, some of it—of what she said, I mean—was helpful. So I guess I’ve got a good starting point—at least some sort of starting point.”

Mac nodded. “That’s good t’hear, Ink.”

She looked at Mac. His face was a little flushed, likely from the awkwardness of having to use crutches. A thought came to her. “Um, I’ve been meaning to ask…”

“Eeyup?”

“... where exactly did you get the idea for interviews from? You don’t strike me as a guy who’d, you know…”

They stopped walking, and Mac fixated her with a narrowed look. “Now what’s that supposed to mean?”

She raised her hands, apologetic. “Sorry, sorry! It’s just, like, interviews? Interviews about relationships? The whole idea sounds like a process a real, published author might use.”

She paused. Then she gasped. “No. Macintosh Apple, do you read romance novels—”

“N-no! O-of course n-not! Ah just, Ah-Ah mean—”

“What’s your favorite? Pride and Prejudice? Tender is the Night? Twilight?”

“N-no! Ah mean—Ah don’t read romance novels!”

He was blushing; blushing so much, in fact, that he really did resemble an apple, and his green eyes were like little cute worms that sometimes stuck out and said hello. That image alone was enough to tickle Ink’s heart. She began laughing, harder and harder, until she was clutching her gut and had bent over. She was sure the entire school could hear her—and a small part of her was deeply embarrassed—but the other part of her didn’t care. She kept laughing and laughing while Mac stuttered and sputtered and scrambled for a coherent explanation.

“Ah just read it in one of them magazines Applejack gets,” Mac managed to say. “Y’know, like those trash Cosmo magazines or whatever!”

She finally stopped laughing. Now she was wheezing. But she decided to give Mac the benefit of the doubt. “Oh? And in that magazine you read an entire article about how an author goes about getting ideas?”

“It was a good article…”

“Ha! Okay, Mac, I believe you. Though there’s nothing wrong with wanting to read a little bit of romance every now and then.” She giggled as he stuttered again.

He was still blushing and she was still giggling by the time they reached the gym. The doors were closed, and they could see several students on the court. No one seemed intent on coming over to bother them. Her giggles subsided, and Mac returned to his usual state.

Ink realized they would have to say goodbye. She reminded herself it was for the moment, but she couldn’t deny she had enjoyed their little conversation.

“You’re not gonna fall again, okay?” she told Mac. It was more of an order, really, rather than a warning.

He nodded ruefully. Then he lifted one of the crutches. “Ah don’t think it can get much worse than this.”

She didn’t know what else to say, so she opened the door for Mac and stepped aside so he could get through. He stopped halfway, turned to her, and placed a hand on her shoulder. His blush was gone, and he was smiling again. “Thanks fer walkin’ with me, Ink. Ah appreciate it.”

“Oh! Yeah, no, it’s fine, Mac. I liked it, too.”

He walked away. She watched him go, feeling odd. He stopped when he was at the bleachers, turned around, and raised an eyebrow, asking a silent question.

“Oh! Um, well…” She hesitated; hesitated; then: “Bye!”

She was gone; the door was closed behind her; but his laughter, booming and deep, trailed after her, and she welcomed it.

Chapter Six: A Lunch Spent Wondering

The rest of Ink’s morning went, to her, far slower than preferred or reasonable. It was a boring mess of math and a foreign language, of equations and conjugations. Without the support of a friend, she found these classes absolutely awful to get through, and by the time the fourth one ended, she was about ready to turn in.

The realization that the next block was lunch was not as strong as she might have hoped. Mondays were, after all, not particularly known for invigorating the average student. For as much as Ink enjoyed Canterlot High, she was still a teenager wrapped up in teenager things, and the angst of homework and tests and requirements were still boiling within her.

It was the realization of what came with lunch, and the prospect of what that would entail, that fully revitalized her, and she was skipping down the halls with just as much enthusiasm as she had when she had walked with Big Mac—though this, she did not know nor think to make the comparison.

Her skip was a nervous one nonetheless, as old feelings returned. What questions could she ask? Would any be willing to talk? She reasoned that these couples that Artifex and Rainbow had mentioned were among the nicest students in the school; surely they would not mind helping her. Still, she figured there was some sacred rule regarding the openness of the information that went with a relationship that was to be discussed between the pair themselves. Would she, an interviewer, have the right to breach it?

So caught up was Ink in this line of thinking that she did not realize she was already in the cafeteria until the sound greeted her. Well, more like interrupted her. It was loud—though that was an understatement of the criminal variety. With all the students piling in, settling down, and taking the time to relax and re-associate with friends, their voices carried enough energy to compensate for the awful, cold Monday morning to which they’d been subjected. Ink watched them from her position against the doors, saw all the colors packing in and walking around and talking and eating, and she wondered how many were in a relationship, and what they might have to say.

Too bad she was the nervous sort, and would not think to send out a survey, even an anonymous one.

Slowly, Ink began to realize that Artifex was not here, and she began to panic. She did not know where he was sitting, if anywhere, so all she could do was stand by, awkward and stiff, feeling self-conscious, even as no one paid her any attention. Crossing her arms and attempting to look casual, she could not prevent Gaige’s voice from breaking through and yelling at her mentally. “Baka, baka, baka…”

“BAKA!”

“Gah!”

And, of course, there she was; right next to her, in fact. Gaige was frowning. “Jesus, Ink. Do you really have to zone out like that?”

Ink rubbed the back of her head. “Sorry. I’m just waiting for someone.”

“Artifex, right?”

“... how’d you guess?”

Gaige smirked dangerously. “Who else would you be waiting for?”

She walked away before Ink could respond. Gaige bumped into Flash, she blushed and yelled at him, he didn’t blush, he was just smiling, and they walked away mostly together.

Still feeling slightly alone, Ink decided to get lunch. She joined the line and got a tray, walking up to the lunch lady. Something about her was familiar, with her wrinkly, green skin and wizened face with eyes that scrunched up when she smiled.

The lady scooped on some mashed potatoes. “Let me guess,” she said, in an oddly high-pitched voice. “You’re Ink Quill?”

“Huh? How’d you know that?”

“My grandson mentioned you.” The lady winked. “You might know him. Big Mac?”

“Grandson?” She put the dots together. “Oh! That means you’re Granny Smith!”

“That’s right, dearie. You’re a smart one, fer sure.”

“Oh, um, thanks?”

Granny Smith chuckled. “Don’tcha worry, little one. Mac ain’t said much about you. Just that you seem like a nice girl. And that you’re writing a little something, ain’tcha?”

“Mmaybe?” She drew the word out, unsure exactly how much to clarify.

“Mighty fine goal there. It’s nice t’see young’uns like you still having an appreciation for the arts. Too bad so many shun the profession these days. Back in my day, you were congratulated for having that dream!”

Ink refrained from mentioning the last time writing had emerged as a worthy occupation was well over a century ago. She also refrained from mentioning that, as far as she knew, it wasn’t looked down upon so much as not a huge, open market. Old people generally liked believing they were right.

“Well, nice talking to you,” she said, before moving ahead in the line. She paid for her lunch and scouted the cafeteria, again looking for Artifex.

And there he was. Somehow, he’d gotten in without her noticing, and was sitting beside that Sonata girl. He and Ink made eye contact, and after a brief moment of rumination, he raised an arm and waved her over.

She refrained from immediately sitting down, instead looking between the table and her tray, unsure what to do or say.

“Oh, so that’s Ink,” Sonata whispered not-at-all-quietly. If she wasn’t feeling self-conscious before, she certainly was now, as all eyes at the table turned to her. Thank goodness they were welcoming.

“How observant of you,” Artifex said. He offered Ink a rare smile. “Don’t worry, they don’t all bite. Sit down.”

She was still hesitant, so she turned to the other person she knew there—Rainbow Dash. There just happened to be an open spot next to her, and the athlete was quick to pat it down. “Don’t just stand there,” she said.

So Ink sat down. She tried not to bump elbows or kick legs, and that ended with her rather stiff-faced and raised-shouldered. Her mind drew a blank slate, and then tossed that slate into the cognitive trash bin. She coughed, if only to break the silence that she had created, even though in reality there was none.

She opted to look around, quickly, just to do something else. Surprisingly, the table was almost empty, and the only ones she recognized were Artifex, Rainbow, and Sonata. The girl at the far left end of Ink was dressed in a farmer’s get up, complete with overalls and a stetson; she seemed nice enough, and gave Ink an acknowledging nod.

The four people directly in front of her were very much different. First there was a pink-haired girl, whose smile, impossibly wide, contrasted the blue-skinned boy’s nervous grin. She seemed ready to burst at any second, and Ink wondered if the boy would be on the receiving end of that explosion. The other two seemed much tamer. They were an alabaster-skinned girl, whose smile was as radiant and diamonds, and a grey-skinned boy, whose own smile was soft and kind. When Ink glanced at them, the first word that came to mind was “fantastical,” and she didn’t know why.

These, she guessed, were Artifex’s friends.

Before she could even speak, Sonata suddenly stood up. “Oh, crap! I forgot; I had to go help Aria with a science thing! Shoot, she’s probably really mad! Sorry, guys, I have to go!”

She turned to Ink and rapidly shook her hand. “Nice meeting you, Ink! Sorry I have to go! Bye, now!”

She was gone before Ink even had a chance to say hello—in fact, before any of them even thought to respond. She heard Artifex mutter something low, though not unkind—probably just a quiet “Bye.”

Ink took a breath to ready herself. “Uh, hi,” she said; she mentally facepalmed.

“Hi! I’m Pinkie Pie!” the pink-haired girl exclaimed. Somehow she managed to pop up right behind Ink without her noticing. “It’s really nice to meet you, Inky!” She hugged her from behind. Ink couldn’t breathe, and she likened the hug to a stupidly stronger version of Hazel’s.

She knew Pinkie as Canterlot High’s resident party planner; she wondered if she lifted weights in her spare time. “N-nice to meet you, too, Pinkie,” she managed to wheeze out. Pinkie let go and sat back down.

“Why don’t you guys introduce yourselves?” Artifex suggested.

“Can do, Arty,” the farmgirl said. Her accent was just like Big Mac’s. “Ah’m Applejack, Ink. Nice ta meetcha.”

“Big Mac’s sister?”

“The one and only! So it is true you and he have been talking.”

“You thought he was lying?”

“Naw. Ah can detect a lie from miles away. Ah just like teasing him, y’know?”

Ink decided she did know, just now remembering her interaction with the boy a mere two classes before.

The blue-skinned boy was the next to speak up: “Hi, Ink. I’m—”

“He’s my Swifty!” Pinkie interrupted, giving the boy a tight squeeze. He briefly turned a darker blue before she released him.

“R-right. Uh, Swift Justice is the name” He gestured aimlessly, widely, sporadically. “Pinkie’s girlfriend. Boyfriend! I mean boyfriend.” He tried to save face by giggling, but he looked more confused and flustered than calm. Poor boy, Ink thought. Then Pinkie giggled and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Then the kiss traveled to his mouth, and before he could react, she was practically engulfing him in a sweet and tender moment of passion. Maybe not quite, Ink amended. She felt her cheeks flush at the display.

“And that just leaves us,” said the alabaster-skinned girl; she was—and Ink meant this objectively—by far the prettiest of them, with luscious eyelashes; her hair had been expertly coifed. “My name is Rarity, dear. A pleasure to meet you.”

“And I’m Clyde,” the boy next to her said.

“My boyfriend,” Rarity explained, and she and he took a moment to gaze into each other’s eyes, before they gave each other a quick peck on the lips. If it weren’t so cliche, Ink would have squealed; Hazel’s influence on her was incredibly massive.

“Nice to meet you. All of you,” Ink said. “Um, I’ll be honest; I didn’t think Artifex was this close to all of you.”

“What do you mean?” Rarity asked.

Ink shifted in her sat. “Well, you’re just so… easy-going with your relationship stuff. I mean, Pinkie here just kinda… made-out with Swift on the spot. Isn’t it, well, I dunno, just kinda awkward since Artifex is single?”

She paused, and turned to him. “You are single, right?”

He huffed a little. “I am, yes. I’m not bothered by it. And, besides, Applejack is single, too.”

“Which is a crying shame,” Rarity said. “You should get a boyfriend, dear. There are plenty of guys who would love to get a chance to get to know you.”

“And Ah told you and Ah’ve told Soul that Ah’m too busy with the farm to be with anybody!”

“That’s a poor excuse and you know it!”

“Hey, let’s all settle down, here,” Clyde said. “Besides, Rarity, Rainbow also is single.”

“I haven’t forgotten, dearie. You know, you and Clue could have been rather cute together.”

Rainbow shrugged. “I don’t think so. We’re better off as friends. He’s with that Aurora Veil, anyhow.”

“We’re getting off topic,” Swift said. “If I remember Artifex correctly, he said that you wanted to ask us a couple of things?”

“O-oh! Right.” Ink suddenly felt a sudden urge to fix glasses that weren’t there. She mentally slapped herself for not having written down any notes or guidelines for the questions. Wit would have to save her, here; wit she knew was fleeting at the worst moments. “Um… let’s see… Well, I guess… you can tell me how you met and, y’know, hooked up?”

“That might take a while,” said Rainbow. “Rarity loves to gloat on it.”

“I do not gloat! I just like to remind people how incredible Clyde really is!”

“Then just give the shorthand version?” Ink asked. She was already digging around her backpack for some spare notebook paper. She took it out, and returned to look for a pen, when she heard something being rolled over. Looking up, she saw it was a royal-blue pen.

She looked over at Artifex; he had a very light smile on his face. “For the moment,” he said, gesturing to the pen.

She extended her thanks by way of a nod and a grin, before taking the pen into her hand. It was heavy, but in a satisfying way. Just the right amount of weight for the right amount of words, she supposed.

Rarity was tapping her chin. “Where to begin…? Well, you could say it was all due to the hand of fate.”

Ink scrunched up her brow, and before she could stop herself, she said, “That sounds awfully cliche.” Then she realized what she’d said, and she gasped and covered her mouth. “I-I’m sorry, that just slipped out!”

Rarity momentarily fixed her with a glare, before it melted into a resigned stare. “Well, I suppose you are right, in a way,” she said, looking at Clyde. “Off paper, and I suppose in your case, on it, it does sound cliche. But love is like that, cliche at moments. And it’s the sweetest kind of cliche, wouldn’t you say, Clyde?”

Clyde nodded. “But that does beg the question: Ink, why are you asking us this? And why are you writing it down?”

Again, that blush formed. She fought the urge to look away, though her pen did rub hard against her finger. “I, uh…”

“She’s writing a romance novel,” Artifex said.

“Artifex! Why—”

“You meant to say it but you weren’t, so I said it for you. Thank me later.”

“I swear to God, Artifex, you can be just as infuriating as Gaige—”

“A romance novel?!” Rarity screeched. She shot forward, grabbing Ink by the collar of her shirt. She rocked her back and forth. “How positively exquisite! Oh, you absolutely must tell me everything!”

“Rares, let go before poor Ink upchucks her lunch,” Applejack calmly said, pressing a hand against Rarity’s shoulder. “And give the girl a moment t’speak, okay?”

“Oh! Um, my bad, Ink, dear,” Rarity apologized. “I just got… really excited from that.”

Ink rubbed her head. “It’s okay. You’re not the first person to react that way, anyhow.”

Artifex raised an eyebrow. “Hazel?”

“Who else?”

“Fair point.”

“Ooh!” Pinkie now had taken the space left behind by Rarity, and was all up in Ink’s face. She pressed her nose into Ink’s, so close and too close, and with every word she pushed Ink down and down the bench until she was nearly slipping off. “What’s it about? Is it a simple love story? Is it a romance-adventure story? Are there dragons? Are there knights? Vampires? Werewolves? Vampires and werewolves? Are they vampiric werewolves? Or werewolf vampires? How about vampiric knights and were-dragons? Ooh, are there other characters? Other romances? Camoes? Who’s your agent? Can I be your agent? Is this going to be a BlueSun kinda thing, or a BRye kinda story, with really cute and fluffy moments? Or is this going to be a Ragga and drag along and along and along? I like both, really; do you like both? You know, you should really—”

“Oh my God, is everyone in this school so easily excitable?!”

As Swift struggled to pull Pinkie back, Ink heaved an annoyed breath; her cry had not silenced her in the least, and she was still babbling on about Sonic whatever or Pyra something or Snow or Sun or what the hell she was on about. Ink pinched the bridge of her nose; she could hear Artifex chuckling, and she gave him a glare.

He didn’t let up his amused gaze. “The thing is, guys,” he said, “Ink here needs our help with writing it.”

“Sold!” Rarity shouted, still being held back by Clyde. “Ink, I will get you the best publishing agent in Canterlot if I am credited as your inspiration!”

“Not the help I was referring to,” Artifex said. “Material help.”

“What’s that mean?” Swift asked.

Ink groaned. “It means I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“You sound pretty knowledgeable right now.”

“I meant in the book! Or… not in the book. I don’t know.”

“You lost me.”

She sighed. “Yeah, well, it’s pretty weird, I guess. But, hear me out, all right?” Ink took a deep breath. “Look. I need… inspiration and motivation to write this thing. Unfortunately, I don’t quite have either.”

“You don’t?” Rarity asked. “That’s horrible! How could you not? Don’t you writers just have ideas bursting at every second?”

Ink’s sigh grew more irritable. “If that were the case, then ‘writer’s block’ wouldn’t exist.”

“You’d probably understand this feeling the most, Rarity,” Artifex said. “You’re an artist in your own right. Haven’t you had lulls in your passion?”

She tapped her chin, considering the question. “Yes, I suppose I have. Though that was because I was on the verge of some new design breakthrough. Maybe it’s the same with you?”

Ink huffed. Her breath caused a strand of her hair to fly out of her face. “If that’s the case, then I hate it. A lot.”

“Mmm. I concur with that feeling; it’s the worst in the world, I’ll have you know.”

“It’s not just not knowing where to go, though,” Ink said. “It’s knowing how to go. How to start and how to write the first word.” She was getting repetitive, and she knew this, so she decided to change course: “So, his idea was that I’d go around and interview a bunch of our school’s couples and get their thoughts on… well, love, I guess. Maybe it would strike some fanciful, creative nerve.”

“His idea?” Clyde asked. “You mean Artifex?”

“Oh, no,” Ink said, shaking her head. “I meant Big Mac.”

She heard Applejack spit out her juice drink, nearly spraying Artifex in the process. Rarity dove for cover. Rainbow laughed and laughed.

Artifex stiffly raised a napkin to his jacket, wiping away a few, stray drops. “Thanks for that, AJ,” he muttered.

“Mah brother?!” Applejack exclaimed after she’d recovered.

“Uh, yeah?” Ink rubbed the back of her head. “I mean, yeah, it’s kinda surprising. But you’re kinda responsible for that.”

“How?!”

“Your magazine stack.” Ink smirked, expecting Applejack to blush, but all she had on was a confused look. “Uh, the magazines? Cosmo, Glamour, all that stuff?”

“ ‘That stuff?’ Ah’ve never even heard of that stuff before.”

“But… you bought it.”

“Applejack? You buy that stuff?” Pinkie asked. “Well, I guess that explains why you have a hard time finding a boyfriend!”

“I don’t buy anything, consarnit!”

“Applejack, dear, really. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I sometimes take a look at it, if only for little advice here and there.”

“Doesn’t Cosmo have really weird relationship advice?” Swift asked. “Like… sex tips using ground pepper?”

Rarity heavily blushed. “That’s not—I don’t—Swift, how on Earth would you know that?”

“Scootaloo,” he grumbled. “She bought them one day for some reason and left them in the bathroom. I ate some bad burritos the night before and, well, it was the only reading material I could get.”

“Didn’t you have your phone?” Clyde asked.

“Pinkie took it.”

“That’s rough, buddy. Couldn’t even use it as toilet paper.”

“You’d be wiping your behind with trash,” Artifex quipped. “A fate worse than death itself.”

Applejack groaned. “Look, maybe Apple Bloom bought some or something. She’s been eyeing that Tender Taps, Ah think.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Ink admitted. “I mean, Mac just said he caught a passing glance of them. Didn’t tell me where, though.”

She took a bite of her lunch. It was cold; they’d been talking for so long that it was no longer delectable. Thankfully, she wasn’t that hungry. “All right, let’s get back on topic,” she said. “Um, Rarity, Clyde. Could you tell me how you guys hooked up? As best as you can remember it?”

Clyde smiled. “Well, it began with detention…”

A few minutes later, Ink had blown through an entire front sheet of paper, and was now on the back of that same piece. Scribbles that barely resembled words covered it, dipping up and down and dragging across like little strokes of creativity. Though, Ink wished she could touch that creativity, for even though there was much material given, she still felt somewhat at a lost.

At the very least, it had been an enjoyable story, interrupted by only two kisses and a few comments from the surrounding students. By the end of it, Ink felt at least relieved that she had a lot in terms of substance, despite her still feeling like she was missing something.

“You two must love each other very much,” she said. She saw Clyde, Rarity, and Artifex exchange knowing glances, and she didn’t know why, but she didn’t think it was worth asking.

“We certainly do,” Rarity agreed. “Hopefully that wasn’t too much material, Ink.”

“Actually, I think it helped a lot,” she lied through her teeth. “Just the right amount.”

“Oh, that’s good. I did enjoy telling it, so if you ever want to hear it again—”

“See?” Rainbow said. “Gloating!”

“Oh, hush up, Rainbow. Besides, I’m sure I’m not the only one who would be so willing to share.”

“What, you mean Soul? Bull!”

“Soul?” Ink asked. “Who’s that?”

“Mah cousin,” Applejack said. “Soul Writer. He’s dating Sunset Shimmer, actually.”

“Really? Where is he now?”

“From mah understandin,’ he and Sunset had to stay behind in Chemistry because they had to finish a lab. They have to do that a lot…”

Artifex smirked. “For less than stellar reasons?”

Applejack shook her head. “Nah. Soul just hates Chem and Sunset likes to help him. Though Ah wouldn’t put it past them to try an’ get some smooching in here and there.”

“Neither would I.” Seeing Ink’s confused look, Artifex turned to her. “With any luck, you’ll see them in a bit. Maybe you could ask them some more. They helped me, at least.”

Ink sensed there was more to that statement then she realized, especially since Applejack gave a strange, but somehow empathetic look. Artifex simply nodded at her.

“Right, well.” Ink harrumphed shortly. She turned to Pinkie, who was looking expectantly at her. “So… mind telling me your story?”

“Silly Ink!” Pinkie said. “Why tell you it when you can read it?”

“... you wrote it down?”

“Nope!”

Ink waited. Pinkie didn’t elaborate. Rainbow nudged her and said, “Just roll with it.”

“R-right.” Ink cleared her throat. “Um, if you don’t mind, Pinkie, could you just tell me it vocally?”

“Sure thing, Ink! Y’see, it all began a thousand years ago…”

“... and that’s how Equestria was made!”

“... You know, that’s what Gaige said when she’d finish.”

“I do know! That’s why I said it!”

Ink turned to Swift; he looked helpless. “Is any of what she just said true?”

“Aside from the first and last part? All of it, I think.” Swift rubbed his head. “Though, her version is definitely a lot more exciting.”

Ink leaned her face against the cup her hand. She sighed. “Well, I guess it’s something. Thanks, Pinkie.”

“No problemo, Inkaroonie!”

“I think I like ‘Inky’ better.”

“No problemo, Inky!”

With Pinkie’s addition, Ink had filled out two full pages of paper. Most of the notes were bulleted, seemingly nonsensical crap, but she figured she could sort it out later when she had the time. For some reason, there was a picture of a lollipop and a rainbow right in the middle, and she didn’t know where that had come from, but judging from the sudden appearance of a pen tucked away in Pinkie’s poofy hair, she had a few guesses.

Now I just need to sort this out… if I can.

“Was this helpful?” Swift asked. He seemed a little hurt. “I mean, it doesn’t look like it really was.”

“What? No, of course it was helpful!” Ink protested. “It’s just a lot, y’know?”

“Two pages of paper isn’t too much,” Artifex pointed out.

“Two pages about ‘how you got together’ is a lot for me,” she retorted. “I mean, that was like the first question. And there’s just so much!”

“Well, yeah,” Clyde said. “That’s because love isn’t just a one-page essay.”

“Obviously. I just didn’t think it was this much right off.”

Rarity fixated her with a concerned look. “Well, have you considered that you don’t have to put everything we just said into your book? Not verbatim, at the very least.”

Ink shook her head. “No can do. I have to put exactly what I want to say, and what I want to say, I think, has to come from what I learn. And that means having to write everything first, and then removing as much as I can.”

She saw that she wasn’t making much sense. She paused for a moment, trying to come up with a proper analogy. “It’s like… like putting together a puzzle. First you get all the pieces you need, and then you figure out how they go together, and maybe there’ll be pieces leftover.”

They collectively “ah’d” at that. “And it must be a mighty big puzzle,” Applejack said, “if you need all this stuff. Or at least think you need this stuff.”

“Right.” Ink rubbed her temples. “Though those pieces can be quite headache-inducing,” she mumbled.

She took a few moments to gather her thoughts. “Pinkie,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Your relationship with Swift is…” She searched for a tame word. “... really, really explosive. Metaphorically speaking.”

Pinkie giggled. “Well, I do have a party cannon.”

“And she certainly blows my mind,” Swift added.

“Okay, maybe not quite so metaphorical. And, Rarity and Clyde—” She turned to them; “—You guys have a more… fairytale-esque kind of relationship.”

“That’s a fair conclusion,” Clyde said.

“Indeed. I’d like to think it’s rather like Cinderella or perhaps Sleeping Beauty.”

She could have sworn her temples were slowing being eroded. “Well.” She licked her lips even though they weren’t dry. “It’s just—”

“Just what, dear?”

“Between yours, Pinkie’s, and Gaige’s relationships… they’re all pretty extreme. Not in a bad way! But they’re not exactly tame, y’know?”

“Tame?”

Ink was struggling. “Like, um, tame. Like, ‘ooh, I love you,’ and ‘I love you, too,’ and then they kiss and just have fun. Not like these ‘will-they-won’t-they’ scenarios, or the crazy scenarios, the out-of-this-world-strange scenarios.”

She shrugged. “I mean, deep down, isn’t love just really simple? It’s appreciate for someone else, basically. So why is your love just as it is?”

“If by simple, you mean it’s just chemicals in your brain,” Artifex said, “then I would argue that it’s not actually that simple. I mean, chemical reactions are complex, Ink. Just because you could feasibly explain love on the scientific scale, doesn’t mean it’s any less layered.”

“And Artifex brings up a good point,” Rarity said. “There’s no one type of love, Ink. There are several; several layers, as Artifex said.”

“Like an onion!” Pinkie piped up. They all groaned. “What? Onions have many layers, too!”

“Anyway, these layers of love all are love either way. Certainly, you can give them names, you can give them titles. But they’re still love nonetheless.” Rarity frowned. “Even if our kind of relationship is ‘cliche,’ it’s still one built on love. That’s our foundation; and it’s Pinkie’s foundation, and Soul and Sunset’s foundation, even Artifex’s foundation with us, even if he doesn’t have a girlfriend.”

“Yet,” Ink heard herself say. All eyes were upon her, the most intense being Artifex’s.

“Yet? Ohoho, you mean Artifex has his eyes on someone?” Rarity’s eyes flashed. “Well, it’s about time. Who is it?”

“It’s—Ack!” Ink felt a sharp pain in her shin. Artifex was giving her a dirty look. Through the pain, she managed to roll her eyes. “Fine. It’s for him to say and not for me to tell you.”

“Phoo. Artifex! Be a dear and tell us to whom you’ve taken a fancy!”

“We’re getting off-track,” Clyde deflected, leading to Artifex giving him a relieved look. “Point is, Ink, when it comes to love, there isn’t one instance of it. Each has their own levels, their own circumstances and scenarios. They’re all unique.”

“But they’re also all the same,” Applejack said. “Ah mean, love is love, right? It don’t matter who it’s with or what it’s for.”

“So both complicated and simplistic.” Ink furrowed her brow. “That’s weird.”

“That’s quite the clinical tone, Ink,” Rarity noted.

“But she’s right!” Pinkie giggled. “Love is weird! Love is freaky! Especially when Swift and I have our lovey-dovey moments… like right now!”

Ink looked away, face burning, as Pinkie tackled Swift to the bench and began making sucking noises. Poor boy didn’t stand a chance.

“Does that answer your question, dear?” Rarity asked. “Though, I’m not sure if you really asked one.”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. It’s something.” Ink sighed. “Guess that’s all I can hope for right now. Can’t rush it, right?”

“Indeed,” Artifex said.

“Thanks, anyway, for putting up with all this.” She gestured to the paper, then to herself. “I know it must be weird for you all to be hearing me ask all of this.”

“It is weird,” Clyde said, “but we aren’t strangers to weirdness. Not in the slightest. Feel free to come by with any questions you might have in the future, okay?”

She nodded. “I will. Thanks again.”

The bell rang. Lunch was over. They packed up their stuff and said their goodbyes; Swift was trying to recover. Ink’s papers were still filled with drivel, but she hoped somewhere in that pile of randomness, she’d find a blinding diamond.

Chapter Seven: A Start of Something New

“I’m home, mom!” Ink called. The door slammed shut behind her.

Ink’s mother emerged from the living room. A white, surgical mask covered her mouth, and her glasses had been replaced with a pair of goggles. “Hello, Ink,” she said from behind the mask. “How was school?”

“It was eh.” Ink peered around the corner. “Cleaning?”

Her mother nodded. “Yup. Heavy duty stuff. Here.” She handed her a mask. “I don’t want you to have a coughing fit.”

Ink put it on. It was rough and scratchy around the edges. “Thanks, mom.” Her voice sounded muffled. “I’ll be in my room.”

“All right, dear. You’re going to do your homework?”

“Yeah, unfortunately. I hate math.”

“And you keep reminding me of that, Ink. Don’t worry, you’ve only got two more mandatory years of it. Then you go to college and do some more.”

Ink rolled her eyes. “Whoop-de-doo. Looking forward to it.”

Ink’s room was on the second floor, the first door down a narrow hallway. She’d gone in and out of that room so many times, she was certain that the carpet had been rendered its flattened state by the tons of pounds she’d walked all over it. As she went up the stairs, she went over what she had to do tonight. It wasn’t much, but it was still something she didn’t want to do.

When she opened the door, she almost didn’t recognize the room. The bed, usually sloppy and wrinkled, had been neatly made, ironed, and folded; even the pillow cases appeared to have a new shine. There was the clear stench of shampoo filling the air; it smelled of lilacs. Someone had taken the liberty to dust Ink’s bookshelf to the point where it no longer had a dull, grey sheen to it. She wondered how much dust had come off. The books themselves had been straightened and rearranged alphabetically. All of her knickknacks had been straightened, now that she thought about it.

The sight made her head spin and chills run through her spine.

She stood in the doorway, the backpack slowly dropping to the floor. “Mom?” she called. “Did you clean my room?”

“I did,” her mother said. “Since you weren’t going to do it anytime soon.”

“It wasn’t that dirty.”

“I found five dust bunnies in the corners. And you only have four corner. I’d say that’s pretty dirty.”

Ink groaned. “But mom, I like it a little dirty. It feels more like me!”

“Well, I don’t. You’ll have to deal with that while you still live under my roof.”

Ink grumbled to herself. “What was that?” her mother called.

“Nothing!”

She went into her room and threw her backpack down. She closed the door behind her, and set to work “fixing” the space. She threw the covers off of her bed, crumpled them up into a ball, then threw them back on. She tore some books from the bookshelves and put them only slightly back in, then rearranged the other items to give the room a disjointed feel. She took a step back to admire her work.

“Ha! And they said I didn’t learn anything from taking Interior Design.”

Her eyes turned towards her desk. She sighed. “Guess that means I have to get to work, then.”

Well, she thought, maybe it won’t take that long. Maybe an hour at most.

With that in mind, she sat down at her desk, took out her books and binders, and set about torturing herself.

It took longer than she wanted to finish her math. Two hours had passed by the time she was done, and she still had to do some history and physics. Her mind was quickly becoming a muddled mess, dulled by the boring, black printing of some obscure instructions. Her mother had long since finished cleaning, and was probably downstairs cooking dinner. Ink could just smell her favorite pasta dish, and the thought of it made her stomach growl.

Her homework load did not let up for another half-hour, and when it finally did, she felt mentally and physically drained. For Pete’s sake, it’s the holidays. Why do they have to pile everything on during the holidays? No one’s gonna give a crap.

She shuffled her homework back into her backpack, then threw it against the wall. She leaned back in her chair and sighed. Her mind really did feel like mush, malleable like clay. She wondered if that was at all a good thing.

Guess there’s no point in stopping, she thought wryly. If I feel like crap now, I can’t possibly get worse.

In stiff movements, she reached for the tray under her desk and pulled out her laptop. It, too, had been cleaned by her mother, and was actually shiny under the light. She flipped it open and turned it on. A beep followed. She keyed in her password and was in.

The laptop opened the last program she had used—it was blank, still, just as it had been for the past few days. In a way, that terrified her; this great, big whiteness that stretched across her screen. Her fingers lay limp against the keys. Her mind was as blank as the page before her.

She got out of her seat and walked over to the thrown backpack, digging inside for her papers. She shuffled through her notes, frowning all the while, and made her way back to her seat. The ink had smudged slightly around some of the text, so some words were obscured. This didn’t bother her, though; she simply sat down, cracked her fingers, and let them rest on the keys once more.

Silence.

No ideas were forming; nothing imaginative was leaping out of her head. Stuck in a metaphorical molasses that felt all too real, she was quickly exhausted by doubts and worries. Her fingers danced and glided but did not press down or land strong enough to make music; that same blankness carried over from the page and her mind to her face. She was in an altogether different place; an empty place.

Ink closed her eyes and sighed. Forcing the words out wouldn’t work; it just made her head hurt. And waiting for the words to show up on the page wouldn’t work either, because she still had to type them.

She recalled a quote from one of her favorite authors: “Writing is easy. You go from Point A to Point B and on and on and on until you’re done.” If only she could get to A in the first place.

A long time must have passed, because suddenly, Ink’s mother’s voice broke her frustrated musings. “Ink? Dinner’s ready!”

“Coming, mom!”

Ink came out of her room, moseyed down the stairs, and headed for the dining room. She could smell the scent of pesto and chicken coming from the kitchen; her stomach kindly reminded her of its hunger.

“Hi, mom. Smells good.”

“Thanks, dear. Could you set the table, please?”

Ink put down the plates and utensils as her mother carried over the pasta dish. “Did you finish your homework?”

“Mmhmm. Can’t say I enjoyed it.”

“I don’t suppose you’re supposed to; work isn’t usually enjoyable.”

“Isn’t the trick to getting work done to convince yourself it is enjoyable, though?”

“If it is, then a lot of people mustn’t be very much aware of it.”

She set the dish down and they waited for a little while because the food was hot. Ink went to grab the water. She poured her mother and herself a drink. By then, the food had cooled just enough to start eating. Her mother gestured for Ink to start, so she did, taking a bit of the pasta dish onto her plate.

The food was warm and good and filling.Soon, her hunger had been satiated. They talked, about random things, mostly about the day. Her mother asked her how her classes were going. Ink was still struggling along in Math and Physics, but that couldn’t be helped. Ink asked how long it had taken to clean the house; only a two hours, her mother said.

Her mother then reached behind her, for the bureau, and brought a plastic case to the table. Opening it, she took out three pills. Ink furrowed her brow. “Medicine?”

Ink’s mother nodded. “I went to the doctor’s today while you were in school, and she gave me a new prescription. This is supposed to help with my high blood pressure.” She put all three pills in her mouth and took a gulp of water, scrunching as the liquid and pills went down together. “They still taste and feel awful, though.”

“Unless they’re grape-flavored, I guess that’s how they all taste and feel.”

“Pills are everything but lovely, that’s for sure.”

Ink wondered if she should write that down. Her mother was known for spouting strange but wise sayings every now and then; some lines were just too good to surely have come from her own mind.

They ate a little more and talked a little more, but Ink wasn’t really paying any attention to either the food or the conversation. She couldn’t help it. Even though the food was great and she liked talking to her mom, her mind was elsewhere. Neither high nor below, it was stuck at a terrifying middle ground, pulled by all directions, stuck in stone. It felt good to be in someplace familiar, and awful at the same time.

“Ink?” Her mother’s voice was strong enough to snap her back to reality; her mind had been wandering far. “How’s your story coming along?”

Oh, right. Her favorite topic of conversation.

“It still isn’t,” Ink said with a resigned sigh. “I talked to my friends today, especially the ones in a relationship, and they all tried to help, but nothing’s really resonating. I just freeze up when I see the blank document.”

Her mother took another bite of the food. “Any idea why that is?”

Ink shook her head. “Nope. I have all these ideas but I can’t transcribe them onto the page. It’s awful.” She swallowed the rest of her water. “I wonder if this is what being mute feels like?”

She took her dishes and went into the kitchen to clean them, then put them in the dishwasher. She took her mother’s dishes, too, cleaned them, and placed them with the other dishes. When she came back, her mother was still there. “It’s that bad?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah. The worst.”

“Well, what do you have so far?”

“Nothing, really.” Ink sat down. “Just a girl and a guy are supposed to meet and fall in love. And dramatic things happen between that time. Like, really dramatic stuff. I don’t know.” She paused. “I have ideas; just not a story.”

Ink’s mother pursed her lips. “I know I’m not really an expert about this sort of thing. But… maybe you’re looking at it too clinically.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well… writing is a deeply personal activity, right?”

“I guess so.”

“So you should make it sound personal. So… maybe, instead of just writing what you are being told love is or what goes into love, maybe you should give your own take.”

“But I don’t know anything about love!”

“But you know some things, don’t you? At the very least, you feel things.” Her mother shrugged and tilted her head. “Maybe that’s what you need to do, just to start. Add your own emotion, and not necessary the ‘love’ kind. Make it personal. Make it you.”

Her mom got up and took away the dish. “I’m not saying to discount everything your friends say, especially since they are in relationships. There’s validity in that. But I am saying that if you want to start this off right, then you have to write it as you would write it.” She paused. “But, then again, I’m not a writer. But I have loved before, Ink. And love is a deeply personal feeling, and everyone knows it.”

Ink was silent at that, left sitting in her seat as her mother put away the food and turned on the dishwasher. Then, as if fate itself decided to step in, her phone vibrated. She took it out and found a simple message.

“Good writing tells the truth.”

She put the phone away, feeling somehow different. Her mother was humming in the kitchen. She felt different, but not badly.

After she’d taken a shower, changed, and had settled in her bed, Ink couldn’t sleep. Her mind had stopped being mush for a brief moment, and ideas were pouring in and pouring out. She leaped out of bed, dove into her chair, and opened her laptop to the document.

It was blank, and despite the sudden influx of ideas, she still didn’t know how to start. But her mind was alight with the possibilities. There was something there; something she could grab and turn into words. She just had to find it.

For hours she sat there, at her desk, staring at a blank document. To an outsider, it would have looked like she was stuck still where she had been for days, mulling around in splooge and waste. And perhaps, she was, but for some reason, this didn’t bother her.

The clock struck midnight. The chime was like an alarm, a sign to start, and despite her drooping eyelids and slow breaths, she managed to place her fingers on the keys. They moved naturally, on their own, without her having to hesitate or even think about it.

Five words. Twenty-two satisfying clicks.

She fell in love once.

Ink powered down her laptop and went to bed. She dreamed vibrantly.

Chapter Eight: A Fuel to a Flame

The rest of Ink’s week went smoothly, for all intents and purposes. Despite Physics and Math being hiccups along the way, her classes were mostly easy; the homework load began to lessen as the holidays drew near. In a week it would be Christmas, and no one wanted to be the ass who gave homework over the break. No one wanted to grade any papers, either.

Moreover, she had a chance to continue the interviews with some new faces, faces she didn’t quite expect to meet. Fluttershy, who was the student body’s resident animal lover and caretaker, had spoken softly to her but had done so in strong tones. Despite her shyness, she was able to provide an explanation as to what love was to her, relating it to animals and her care for them. Applejack and Rarity had been quick to join in, having their own pets, and Artifex chimed up for a few moments; up until then, Ink didn’t even know he had a cat.

Soul and Sunset still had to deal with Chemistry, and this was relayed to Ink by Artifex. She would not be able to talk to them this week; perhaps next week, if they managed to get their act together. She’d managed to talk to Sonata for a bit, but the ex-Siren couldn’t really help. She’d spent her entire life as an avatar of false love, so she couldn’t say she really knew anything. “But if it’s seduction you want, I’m your girl!” she’d nonetheless said.

Ink politely declined, though she did make a note of Artifex’s sudden blanching. He was probably thinking of some other ex-Siren.

She hadn’t written anything else after that one line, but that did little to deter her mood. Something inside of her had been unlocked, and this filled her with an incredible sense of hope. It was encouraging, no longer having a blank page; even more encouraging to feel that this was the first line she had so desperately needed, and whether it was by divine Providence or by chance’s doing, she was thankful either way, and positively glowed as she went about her week.

Not everyone was excited about that, though. And she had the distinct displeasure of having to walk with two of them on that Friday, December the 12th.

“One line?!” Hazel screeched as they walked down the sidewalk. Their feet stamped through piles of wet snow, and their breaths came as warm, opaque clouds. “That’s it?!”

“Yes, Hazel,” Ink said, “ ‘that’s it.’ ”

“How?! You had a week!”

“Some authors take all day to come up with seven words,” she replied. “Some take all day to place and move a comma.”

“But a week, Ink? A freaking week?! I did all that Physics stuff for a stupid sentence?!”

Ink stopped in her tracks. “It’s a good sentence. And it’s better than nothing.”

“It might as well be nothing!”

“That just goes to show how much you know about writing books.”

“Bakas, please, you’re both pissing me off,” Gaige said. “Could you both shut up before I suplex you into the ground?”

Ink winced. “Sorry, Gaige.”

“Besides, Hazel has a point. Even for you, this is slow.”

“What, are you saying I’m not fast?”

“Not in some areas.”

“If I ever write a grim story, I’m gonna base a character off of you and kill you off.”

“Love you, too, Ink.”

“I ship it!”

“Hazel, shut up.”

Minutes later, when all expletives had been reasonably exhausted and their faces were so heated that any falling snow melted instantly, they reached their destination. It honestly seemed like the kind of house you’d see in one of those Home Improvement magazines, with a red-tiled roof, recently cleaned. The driveway was clear, and a stone-brick walkway paved its way across a snow-covered lawn. The ordinary stopped there. The front had been decorated in fake bushes and faker Christmas lights that blinked like prismatic fireflies, almost as if there was a fault in their wiring. Someone had put wreaths on both the front door and the garage, but they were anything but ordinary; the one on the garage looked like it had been fished out of a dumpster, while the one on the front door appeared to have been burnt. On the front lawn itself, they’d put up lights and rearranged them to spell something. It took Ink a solid minute to figure out what.

“ ‘Praise Jesus’?”

Though not looking at her, Ink could practically feel Gaige roll her eyes. “It’s my brother’s idea.”

“I don’t think I’ve met your brother yet.”

“Count yourself lucky, then. If you think I’m crazy, he’s even crazier.”

“How much crazier?”

“If you take Hazel’s crazy shipping when Soul and Sunset show up, subtract the shipping part, and double it, you’ll have a fraction of how crazy Treble is.”

“... is that a big number?”

“Oh, right, you’ve never seen Hazel freak out over Sunoul.”

“It’s Soulset, Gaige, you idiot!”

“Baka, be quiet.”

They trudged up the driveway, being careful not to slip. When they reached the front porch, Gaige didn’t bother knocking. She swiftly knocked down the door with a kick.

When they entered, hesitantly, they heard a click of a tongue and a sweet and luscious voice say, “Goodness, Gaige. That’s the fifth door we’ve had to replace. Can’t you be a dear and just knock?”

“Sorry, mom. Gaige does what Gaige does.”

“Yes, well, Gaige does not quite have a high enough status to refer to herself in the third person.”

Out from behind the kitchen corner came Gaige’s mom. Ink had never met her, and seeing her now, she found her incredibly stunning. One word came to mind: voluptuous. It described everything about this lady, from her creamy face to her hourglass figure to the clothes she wore—they reminded Ink of ringleaders in a circus—and the makeup she applied. Even that violet top-hat of hers was voluptuous. In a way, she reminded Ink of Rarity, with an inherent beauty to her, but Rarity’s now seemed nubile and undeveloped; this woman was the pinnacle of mature beauty.

She must have caught Ink staring, for she suddenly giggled. “Oh my. I think your friends have found something they like.”

Ink blushed and turned away. She saw Hazel also blushing.

“Why don’t you introduce them, Gaige, sweetie?” the woman asked.

“Fine. Ink, Hazel, meet my mom, Moxi Mix. Mom, Ink and Hazel. There. Introductions done.”

Miss Moxi Mix let out a short exhale. “Always so blunt. You must get that from your father.”

She appraised them with a raised eyebrow. “So if you don’t mind me asking, why exactly are you here? Normally Gaige doesn’t have friends over. Unless they’re that Flash boy. Quite a catch you’ve got there, sweetheart.”

“Mom! Eww, why would you even say that?” Gaige tugged at her pigtails. “Look, they’re here because we have to work on something for a few classes, and we’re having a sleepover after that. Okay?”

Before her mother could get another word in, Gaige was gone, darting around the corner and heading into her room. Ink felt compelled to apologize on her behalf.

“It’s fine, dear,” Moxi said with a smile. “I’ve dealt with her at her very best and at her very worst. Trust me, when you become a parent to a teenager—a teenage girl, too—you learn to roll with the blows.” She winked. “Have fun, you two.”

She went back into the kitchen, leaving Ink and Hazel alone. They exchanged looks.

“She’s hot,” Hazel whispered.

“Shh! You don’t want her to hear that! Now, come on, let’s go find Gaige.”

She wasn’t hard to find. Somehow, she had the energy and speed to create a loud ruckus only seconds later. It sounded like an entire workshop had just opened up and was busily configuring and reconfiguring… something. Ink knew Gaige had an interest in mechanics and engineering, but she didn’t think the sounds would be coming from her room.

And her room wasn’t hard to find, either. They followed the sound up to an oak door, whose entire front was decorated in various Gaige-memorabilia. A poster of a cartoon— Ink vaguely recalled it being called an “anime”—was plastered right in the center, and someone had taken the time to cut out stock photos of skulls and had placed them on several of the characters’ heads. A sign was above both these things: ENTER AT OWN RISK, it said.

They heard gears being grinded, and Gaige cursing. There was beeping, like the beeping you’d hear in those Saturday morning cartoons with the ticking gag bomb. Or real bomb. With Gaige, it was hard to tell which.

Ink and Hazel glanced at each other. “You first,” Hazel affirmed.

“What? Why me?”

“You’re expendable.”

“Gee, thanks.”

She nonetheless opened the door—and was greeted with a loud beep and a flash of red light. She screamed as something large charged towards her. Her hands came up to protect herself.

“Whoa! Deathtrap, calm down!”

The large “something” stopped. Ink’s hands slowly lowered. The red light had faded, being replaced with a blue light that she somehow associated with “scanning.” What she saw before her was a floating hunk of red-and-white metal that beeped softly, periodically. It stared at her with its one lens, waiting, and she, oddly enough, conjured up the mental image of metallic dog.

Hazel’s hands found her shoulders as she peeked out from behind her. “Oh!” she cried. “It’s Gaige’s robot!”

“Gaige has a robot?”

“Of course I have a robot,” Gaige said. “Why do you think I’m called The Mechromancer?”

“You’re called what?”

“You need to get out more. Or play some good video games. Go on the internet. Get laid.”

“I’m gonna go ahead and ignore that last one. Can we come in?”

“Sure. Deathtrap, move, please.”

Deathtrap beeped and stepped away. While Ink regarded him (could robots have gender?) warily, Hazel bounded past, seemingly undisturbed by the sight. “Wow! So this is your room?”

“Yeah,” Gaige said. “It’s not much. The one I had in Japan was a little larger.”

Breaking her gaze off of Deathtrap, Ink looked around. She didn’t think it was that small (it was probably bigger than hers), with Gaige’s bed taking most of the space. She was on it, fiddling with her phone. A desk, covered in an assortment of plastic figurines, sat by the side. The computer that resided in the center of it was dusty; it had been neglected for quite some time, though it did not seem to have been turned off. Posters, presumably from Japan and of Japanese things—she felt kinda bad for labeling them as such; a good friend would probably know what they were—hung all around the room, on the walls and even the closet door. The one poster she did recognize was of Eminem.

“You’re a fan?” she asked, gesturing to that poster.

“Y-yeah,” Gaige said, blushing.

She continued looking around, and her eyes settled on a picture frame next to Gaige’s bed. A familiar, blue-haired boy had his hands around her pigtailed friend. Ink smiled. Gaige saw her looking, and her blush deepened.

“Aw! That’s so sweet!” Hazel gushed.

Gaige got out of her bed and waltzed over to Deathtrap. She knelt down and fiddled with something down below. The robot let out a beep, and it’s lens changed from blue to green. It seemed docile.

Gaige stood. “Deathtrap gets a little cranky when he isn’t charged one-hundred percent,” she explained. “And he gets a little jumpy with new people. Sorry, Ink.”

“ ‘S fine. You can make it up to me later.”

“I won’t.”

“Worth a shot.”

Ink cracked her knuckles. “Okay. So. Homework. We’re gonna do that?”

“Might as well,” Gaige said. “I mean, that’s what I told my mom.”

“Couldn’t have just told her we were having a sleepover, huh?”

“Shut up. She’d get on my case and start teasing me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because she’s bi, open about it, and flirts with just about anyone. Hazel, stop drooling. You’ll fry Deathtrap and then he’ll kill you.”

“But your mom is so—”

“And that’s all you’re ever going to say (thank you for cutting her off, Jarvy). Now, come on. Let’s at least try to get through the boring stuff first, then we can get on to the fun stuff.”

Despite her resignations, Ink couldn’t resist a crack. “Oh? The fun stuff? I wasn’t aware this was that kind of sleepover.”

“Baka! God, you can be just as bad as Artemis!”

Ink and Hazel sat down on the ground. Gaige joined them. “Who?” Ink asked.

“That white-haired guy!”

“There are a lot of white-haired guys.”

“Ugh! Your friend! Or boyfriend, I don’t know!”

“Oh, Artifex.” Ink paused. “Wait. We’re not—I deserved that.”

Gaige was cackling. “Yeah, you damn well did.”

Hours passed. Homework would have been a breeze, had not Deathtrap constantly bothered them. Strangely enough, he seemed fascinated with Ink, and especially with her hairbun, like it was some sort of anomaly that he just had to scan. She was hesitant the first time when he floated over and prodded her hair, but after a bit of reassurance from Gaige, tried not to let it bother her. Deathtrap was surprisingly gentle, curious; the analogy of a really smart pet became all the more believable. They heard Treble come home, but he only popped in once to say hello, and even that was brief. He was gone before Ink even thought to respond.

But, bar the distraction and Moxi coming up just to check on them, what homework they had to do was completed, and once they’d come down and had a quick dinner, they could get on with their sleepover.

“Sleeping bags?” Gaige asked, going down a list on her phone.

“Check!” Ink said.

“Extra blankets?”

“Check!” Hazel said.

“A bottle?”

“Check! Though, I’m not sure why you’d need it.”

“To play Spin the Bottle, of course.”

“There’s only three of us,” Ink noted.

“Four, if you count Deathtrap.”

“BOOP!”

“Moving on… did either of you bring the booze?”

Ink and Hazel exchanged looks. “Um, that’s illegal ‘cause we’re underage,” Hazel said.

“Pfft. Babies. Lucky for us, I have some stored under my bed—”

Moxi barged in. She didn’t have to say a word; just fixated Gaige with a raised eyebrow and a motherly glare that was both warm and cold. Gaige grumbled, before reaching under her bed and pulling out the bottle. Moxi shook her head and beckoned for more. After a moment, Gaige procured three other bottles, and these she handed reluctantly over.

“I won’t have you drinking underage while you’re under this roof,” she said with a huff.

“So if I do it outside of this home, it’s fair game?”

“Certainly. That also means I won’t save your butt when you go to jail.”

Gaige pouted. “That’s no fun.”

“It’s called being a mom, dearie.” Moxi looked over at the other two. “Do you two have any other alcoholic beverages I should know about?”

They quickly shook their heads no—Gaige muttered, “Traitors!”—and Moxi nodded. “Good.” She returned to a cheery tone. “Well, other than that, have fun, you three!”

The door closed, and she was gone. Gaige took out her phone again. “Well, time to cross that off… for now.”

“Where’d you even get that?” Ink asked.

“Treble?” Hazel hazarded.

“Hey, hey. Until you girls are willing to back me up and not give up the best part of a sleepover, then I’m not telling you anything!”

“So it was Treble.”

“Telling you nothing!”

They went down the list. Pillows, check. Pajamas, check. Toothbrushes, check. Phone chargers, check. A stash of dirty magazines—

“Uh—” Ink coughed. “—sorry, what?!”

“Nothing! Hehe, Treble must have put that there as a joke! That’s all.”

“I thought he didn’t have access to your phone.”

“Guess he broke in!”

“Even though its fingerprint-locked?”

“Shut up, Quillhead.”

Ink rolled her eyes. “Okay, whatever. Is there anything else on that list that we need? Anything that isn’t related to something akin to debauchery?”

“Big words, small girl.”

“I’m taller than you.”

“But you’re right. We’re done.” Gaige tossed her phone onto her bed, then bounced onto it. “Now we can start this sleepover just right!”

“And how do we ‘start this sleepover just right?’ ” Ink asked.

“We obviously need to change into our uniforms!”

“... so our pajamas.”

“Obviously! Get to it, you two.”

“Dibs on the bathroom next to the kitchen!” Hazel called, and she was already out the door before either of them could get a word in.

“Guess I’ll take the one down the hall,” Ink said.

“Just watch out for Treble,” Gaige warned. “Since he’s home.”

“Why? Is he a pervert?”

“Probably not. He’s got a girlfriend and all. Just get going, would ya?”

She went into the bathroom unscathed, changed unscathed, and emerged unscathed. Treble hadn’t come by, so he was either upstairs in his room or doing something else entirely to not be bothered with checking up on the two girls who’d essentially barged into his home unannounced. She didn’t know much about Treble other than the snippets Gaige had told her. Knowing now that he had a girlfriend, she wondered if she should interview him at some point; yet, heeding the warning regarding his craziness, she was having second thoughts.

Now she wore a simple, sleeveless nightgown. Its dark, slate body was topped off by teal frills. She took a moment to tie a ribbon around the collar, something her mother had said was never a bad thing to do, and left the hallway and headed back for Gaige’s room.

“Ooh,” Moxi said. She gave Ink a wink. “Very cute, dear. I see you have a good sense of fashion?”

“An adequate sense,” Ink admitted, blushing while rubbing the back of her head, “mostly thanks to my mother.”

“Mothers do know best, don’t they?”

Ink was about to go, when Moxi tapped her on the shoulder. “Oh, do you need something, Miss Moxi?”

“Two things, now. One: don’t call me that. Moxi will be just fine. ‘Miss Moxi’ makes me feel so old!”

“Oh.” Ink’s blush became crimson. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Now, the second thing—” She grabbed something from the refrigerator. “Here. Take these.”

It was a box. Ink looked at the label. “Um, ‘Choco Sticks?’ ”

“Gaige has a sweet tooth,” Moxi explained. “And she likes these a lot.”

“Isn’t it too late for dessert?”

“Ink, dearie, it’s never too late for dessert.” She batted a hand. “Besides, you could always just re-brush your teeth before you go to bed.”

Ink nodded. “Okay. Thank you, Miss—sorry, Moxi.”

“You’re very much welcome. Have fun!”

As she was going down the hall, Ink opened the box and tentatively took out one of the sticks. She chewed. It was sweet, like chocolate, and firm, like a pretzel. Hmm. Not bad, she thought, as she had another. Then another.

A fourth was in her mouth when she reached the door, and she stopped chomping down long enough to knock. “Gaige?” she said around the stick. “You done changing?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure.” She sounded a little ways off, but Ink thought nothing of it. She twisted the knob and opened the door.

“Man, these Choco Sticks are really good,” Ink said as she entered. She turned around to close the door, keeping her back towards Gaige.

“Oh? Did mom give you some?”

“Yep.” She crunched down on another. “Oh, I should save you some, shouldn’t I?

“Save me a couple.”

“What about Hazel?”

“What about Hazel?”

Ink giggled. “All right, fair point.” She took another stick and held it by the end. “Mmm. Chocof.”

“Hey! I thought I told you to save me some!”

“I can’t helpf it! If’s good.”

She heard Gaige stomp over, and Ink giggled again. She turned around, smiling—

Her eyes became as wide as dinner plates; her cheeks flushed. Gaige was right in front of her, and, much like that weird movie about the two dogs in love (she couldn’t remember the name at the moment), had decided it was okay to bite down on the other end. She held her wrists in place to steady her.

More pressing was the fact that she was naked.

Ink shrieked, jumping back and letting go of the sweet delight. Gaige unceremoniously ate the rest, smirking. She seemed self-satisfied.

“Gaige!” Ink shouted. “You’re—you’re—Oh my God, I am so sorry, I didn’t know, didn’t think—” She covered her face and turned away. The warmth emanating from her face burned her hands.

“Geez, Ink, what’s the big deal? We’re both girls.”

“Yeah, b-but—”

“We have the same parts! Did you need to check?”

“Aah! Gaige, stop talking like that!”

“What? Am I not good enough for you or something?”

“Wh-what? N-no! O-of course not, it’s just that—”

Ink risked a peek; she regretted it, eeping when she saw Gaige was still standing there in her birthday suit, her hands on her hips. “P-put some clothes on before Hazel sees you!”

Gaige came up behind her and rested her arms on her shoulder. “Aw, come on, Ink. Relax. It’s not like she’s going to come through the door right now.”

There was a knock; and Ink, fearing the worst, moved to stop the door from opening. But the door swung open, knocking her back. She fell into Gaige, and the two of them tumbled onto the ground, lying on top of one another.

There stood Hazel, dressed in a loose-fitting nightgown. “Hi, girls—” she began to say, only for her eyes to fall upon Ink and Gaige. They were not in the most “conservative” of positions. Ink was certain her blush could burn through the floor.

“G-girls? G-Gaige and I-Ink?”

Ink scrambled off of Gaige. “I-It’s not what it looks like!”

“You know,” Gaige said, “when someone says that, it’s definitely what it looks like.”

“Shut up! You’re not helping!”

Hazel’s eyes went blank. She moved her mouth up and down, but no sound came out. “I think we broke her,” Gaige said.

“We?! It’s your fault for not being dressed!”

“Yeah, well, you fell into me, and you just had to fall in such a way—”

“Put some clothes on, damn it! Before Hazel has a nosebleed!”

“Gaink.”

They both turned to the girl. “Um. What did you say?” Gaige asked.

Hazel blinked. “Gaink.” She smiled. It was big and wide, unnaturally so, like someone had taken her normal smile and ruined its proportions. “Gaink,” she said again, a little louder.

“Oh.” Ink stood up, raising her hands in surrender. “Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. Hazel, please don’t—”

“GAIGE AND INK! GAINK! I SHIP IT! AAAAAAAAAAHHHH!”

Ink slammed the door shut. It did nothing; they could still hear Hazel’s screaming, piercing through the wood like bullets. Ink covered her face with one hand. “Gaige. Please. At least put on some underwear?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I’ll let her in, I swear.”

“... fine. Don’t peek. Unless you want to.”

Ink cracked open the door. Gaige hurried up changing.

That little bout of shipping had effectively exhausted Hazel. By the time it had reached eleven-o’-clock in the evening, she’d pretty much slipped into her sleeping bag, hair sprawled all around her, and was out of it. They chose not to disturb her—well, Ink chose not to. Gaige tried, but she managed to persuade her otherwise. Their planned “Spin The Bottle” game between the three of them would have to wait later on during the weekend, perhaps Saturday or Sunday.

The embarrassment from earlier had yet to fade. Ink could not look at Gaige directly without seeing the image of her nude before her. Try as she might to just accept it, she found it a dirtying and unwanted thought—though, she only half-admitted, it was hardly an unpleasant one. For her sake and for whatever remained of Gaige’s dignity, she chose to keep that thought locked away, and hoped it would never see the light of day. Now if only the blush from her cheeks would recede…

Gaige sat on her bed, fiddling with her phone, apparently not caring for the events that had just transpired; and Ink decided to somewhat follow her example. She was happy she’d brought more than just her homework for this sleepover. Reaching into her backpack and fumbling around, she took out her laptop and placed it down before her. The movement had apparently not disturbed the other girls, so she powered it up and found herself where she’d left off, on a familiar, no-longer-blank screen.

She fell in love once.

No comma. No title. No other sentence. It was short, sweet, simple; a concise opening. She allowed herself a moment of self-satisfaction, only to realize that that satisfaction was to be killed off immediately; for now, she saw, she had to continue.

Ink pursed her lips and brought her hands up to her mouth in a semi-prayer position. Staring into the screen, she ran her eyes across the sentence over and over again until she’d not just committed it to memory, but to every part of her as well. The sentence made her body tingle. It felt right. It felt perfect for her story. She knew that. She knew that she’d touched gold with this one. But she did not know how else to dig, or where to dig. Her fingers tried to answer those questions by lighting upon the keys, but they applied no pressure; nothing else appeared. The page was blank besides that one, key sentence.

She wasn’t stuck; just worried. About what, she did not know for certain.

“Mmph,” she grumbled between her teeth.

“Have you tried turning it off and on again?”

Ink had to fight not to screech. She whipped around. “When did you get there?!”

Gaige shrugged. “Just now. Wasn’t too hard. The author had you pretty busy over there.”

“The author—forget it. Gaige, what are you doing?”

“Trying to help you, you baka. You looked like you were having a problem with your laptop.”

Ink turned back to her device. “Well, it’s not the laptop I’m having problems with,” she said, circling around the bit of black.

“Yeah?” Gaige leaned forward and placed her chin on Ink’s shoulder. Ink blushed as she smelled lingering shampoo. “Oh, so that’s the sentence?”

“Yep.”

“Wow. It really is tiny.”

“Hey! Small is sometimes good!”

“Not always. Just ask Treble—don’t give me that look!”

“You’re so weird and vulgar, Gaige.”

“Oh, I know. Move your cursor, would you? I want to read the whole thing.”

Ink moved it and Gaige leaned forward again. She was practically pushing her cheeks into Ink’s. “Have you no sense of personal space?” Ink wondered.

“Me? Have you seen Hazel?”

“Okay, you’re not as bad as her. But still.”

Gaige refused to budge. She read the sentence anyway, over and over again, and her lips were locked into a frown.

Ink cleared her throat. “So… what do you think?”

Gaige shrugged, her shoulders rubbing against hers. “I mean, I guess it’s not bad. I don’t really read romance books. Or books in general. Just mangas.”

“Oh.”

“If Hazel were awake, she’d probably say something more.”

“No, that’s okay.”

“So, what, you don’t know how to continue?”

“Yes and no. I know what I have in mind, but I just don’t know how to get there.”

“Well, what do you have in mind?”

“Just the usual. Guy and girl meet, girl falls in love unexpectedly, they start off as friends, something dramatic happens, and then… love or something.”

“Wow. Not even their names yet?”

Ink shook her head. Gaige actually gasped. “Seriously? What about their personalities?”

“Uh… that’s also a no.”

“Are you kidding me?!”

Gaige pulled away, shut Ink’s laptop (“Hey! That’s kinda expensive, y’know!”), faced the girl, and grabbed her by the shoulders. “But that’s like the most important part of writing anything! The characters!”

“I thought the plot was—”

“No! The plot comes after you make the characters! You want to have people first, because without them, there’s no story! That’s manga-writing 101!”

“… But this isn’t manga-writing.”

“Look, they both deal with storytelling, so just roll with it. Okay?”

Gaige let go and sat down next to Ink. “Listen. You can’t go ahead with an action-adventure manga storyline if you don’t have the characters who are going to be caught up in the conflict. It’s the same with writing romance. You can’t go ahead with a romantic plot of any kind if you don’t have the people who are going to fall in love!”

“But I do—”

“All you have is a general idea! You don’t have any real people, you just have… have… caricatures!”

Ink blinked. “Uh… caricatures?”

“Y-yeah! Like, two-dimensional effigies of what people usually are like!”

“ ‘Effigies’ is a big word for you, Gaige.”

“Shut up! Look, the point is, you don’t have people in your story. You have essentially puppets. No one’s alive, no one’s unique. What you need are definitive characters who act as they are and talk as they are.” She jabbed a finger into Ink’s chest. “That’s what you need to do next. You need to make people.”

Then Gaige blinked. “Uh, I mean, that’s what I figure at least. Uuuhh…”

“I need to make people?”

“Wow. When you say it like that… okay, I know this isn’t like me, but I actually meant it metaphorically—”

“I get it, Gaige, don’t worry.” Ink turned away, lost in thought. She felt Gaige pat her on the shoulder, without anything left to say, and she heard her stumble into bed.

“If you need any more help,” Gaige said through a passing yawn, “just let me know. Always happy to help a friend out.”

Ink managed a smile. “Thanks, Gaige.”

“No problem, Ink.” She yawned again. “What are fellow female OCs for, right?”

Ink had no idea what Gaige was talking about, but before she could ask, Gaige was asleep. She wondered if she’d forced herself to stay up just to help her.

Her eyes lingered over the slumbering form of Hazel and the now-sleeping form of Gaige. Her mind turned over Gaige’s words.

It was dark in the room, save for the simple glow-light from Deathtrap. He was still beeping softly; Ink had forgotten he was there. He was watching her, rather calmly, and after a moment, he levitated himself over and provided a little wave of blue light.

“Oh. Thanks, Deathtrap,” she said, and he beeped in response.

She, after a moment, decided that tonight was a good night to forgo sleep and, after packing away her laptop, with Gaige’s words still tumbling in her mind, she took out a thin notebook and began jotting down some words. She’d continue into the morning, when light first broke through the curtain; and exhaustion would somehow not be felt. She was smiling; here was the fuel she needed.

Author's Notes:

So... this is probably the only time you'll ever see art in this fic. And certainly the only time you'll see art of this... magnitude.

Many thanks to Ragga_Muffin for creating it for me. Link to its source can be found here.

Chapter Nine: A Chance Encounter

Author's Notes:

Apologies for the delay. Due to school starting, a crush developing, and me in general not feeling satisfied with how this chapter initially ended, I had to push back on posting.

Bear in mind, this will probably be the last chapter you see for a while. This story is going on a more informal hiatus so that I can draft the next chapters early.

The next day, Ink’s exhaustion still had not set in, and so it was with great excitement on her part when the others awoke bleary-eyed and belligerent. It had snowed again during the night. Gaige’s bedroom window now was a plastered off-white color, and removing it would likely take a good while.

Ink’s two friends were by no means morning people, but Moxi, it seemed, was. By the time Ink had managed to persuade the two girls to leave the warmth of the bedroom, Moxi was cooking up a storm. They could smell fresh French toast, pancakes, and more all being created, and those smells alone were enough to wake up not just the two other girls, but the rest of the house as well.

A hulking, incredibly muscular man came down the stairs; Ink could not remember meeting him the previous night, so he might have come in during or after midnight. “MORNING, HONEY!” he cried, voice so loud the paintings and decorations shook. “SMELLS DELICIOUS!” He came up behind Moxi and kissed her on the cheek.

She giggled. “Thank you, dear. But now we’re running low on eggs. Could you be a darling and pick some up later?”

“SURE THING, HONEYBUN!” The man turned around. “OH, WHAT’S THIS? GAIGE’S FRIENDS?”

“Y-yeah,” Ink stuttered. This man was huge, easily touching the ceiling with his head.

“THAT’S STRANGE! I DIDN’T SEE YOU COME IN!”

“W-when did you come in?”

“ABOUT TWO OR SO IN THE MORNING!”

“Th-that’s why. We came earlier, after school. A-and kinda stayed in Gaige’s room for the rest of the day.”

She paused, remembering her manners. “U-um, I’m Ink. Ink Quill. And that’s Hazel over there.”

“H-hi, mister,” Hazel said.

The big man bellowed; it sounded like a foghorn. He pounded on his chest. “WELL, NICE TO YOU MEET YOU, INK AND HAZEL! I’M RIFT MIX, GAIGE AND TREBLE’S FATHER!”

“And Moxi’s plaything,” Moxi added from the kitchen. She winked.

Rift went beet-red, but nonetheless tried to remain composed. “TH-THAT TOO!”

“N-nice to meet you, Mr. Mix,” Hazel said. “You’re really—”

“TALL? I GET THAT A LOT!”

“… yeah. Tall. Ehehe…”

“SO! WHAT WERE YOU GIRLS DOING UP IN GAIGE’S ROOM?”

“U-uh, n-nothing. We were… sleeping.”

“SLEEPING, EH? WELL, I AM NOT ONE TO JUDGE! BACK WHEN I WAS GAIGE’S AGE, I HAD A WHOLE ARMY OF WOMEN SWOONING OVER ME! AIN’T NOTHING WRONG WITH HAVING SOME BACK-UP DANCERS, AM I RIGHT?”

Ink frowned and furrowed her brow, at a loss for words. Gaige, meanwhile, blushed deeply. “Dad! It’s not like that! They’re just friends!”

“OH, ALL RIGHT, THEN! JUST TEASING YOU!”

As he went into the dining room, Treble emerged from his room. He’d apparently taken the time to change out of his pajamas and was dressed in his usual light-blue checkered shirt and black jeans. Blue headphones covered his ears and a pair of black, shaded sunglasses covered his eyes; yet, despite the apparent intrusions on his sight and hearing, he saw and heard them fine.

He approached, arms wide, smile big and welcoming. “Behold! Your fanfiction god’s obligatory cameo!”

His sister was unimpressed. She crossed her arms. “Morning, bro. You look like crap.”

“Only because I haven’t combed my hair yet.” Ink took a second to check out his ‘do. It was spiked, but to her it didn’t look that bad. “See something you like?” he asked.

“Er, no, sorry. Just… um…”

Treble chuckled. “Nah, it’s cool. Your author has given you taste, that’s for sure.”

“My author?”

“Never mind that. So you’re Gaige’s latest friend, huh?”

“Yeah,” Ink said. “Ink Quill.”

“Treble Clef. I mean, Mix. Treble Mix.”

He tilted his head. “Huh. Not bad. Lilac skin, indigo hair with violet highlights, burgundy eyes. Jarvy knows his color schemes, that’s for sure.”

She blushed. “Uh, what?”

“Oh, nothing. Just talking to the author. Hey, by the way, am I gonna get a big role in this story? Cuz that would be nice, y’know?”

Ink turned to Gaige; then she turned away, realizing that she would probably be of no help. She turned instead to Hazel. “Okay, I think I’m starting to get an idea of how crazy this guy is.”

Treble walked away, already heading for the table. Gaige blew raspberries at him, before stomping off after him, and a moment later Ink and Hazel joined her. Moxi placed down plates upon plates of food. Ink doubted they could eat it all, and yet when Mr. Mix, Treble, and Gaige sat down, she was suddenly reminded of her friend’s enormous appetite, which she assumed was shared between all three other family members.

She thanked Moxi for breakfast (the woman politely accepted her thanks and said it was no problem at all) and dug in. The food was great. It was warm and soft and filling. Her sentiments were shared by everyone else, as Gaige, Treble, and Mr. Mix had no trouble at all with downing entire stacks in only a few minutes’ time. Hazel was much more conservative, taking a few bites and mostly trying not to stare at the older woman. Moxi herself refrained from eating as much as the rest of her family, choosing instead to bask in the glory of having served a delicious meal.

“So what’s you girls’ plan for today?” she asked as they were eating. “Because I don’t expect you to stay in the house all day.”

Hazel swallowed a piece of pancake. “Shopping!” she squealed. “We have to get Gaige some winter dresses!”

“What? No we don’t!” Gaige protested. “I already have one from last year!”

“Yeah, but that’s from last year,” Ink said. “You have to get a new one for this year. Don’t you want to impress Flash?”

“That’s actually really easy to do,” Treble said. “I mean, he’s dating you, isn’t he?”

“Baka, I will suplex you!”

“Now, now, both of you calm down.” Moxi waved her fork at them. “The girls speak the truth, though, Gaige. You ought to get some new dresses. And don’t you need to get a gift for that Artifex person for the gift exchange you will be hosting?”

“It’s Artemis.”

“No, it’s Artifex,” Ink said.

“Baka, be quiet.” Gaige glowered. “I mean, I guess I do have to get him something… but what? He’s him and I don’t even like him that much.”

“Well, that’s not very nice,” her mother said.

“Trust me, he thinks the same thing about me. It’s a relationship built on mutual dislike.”

“I thought he liked me,” Treble said.

“He’s never mentioned you, so I don’t know about that. Ink, what do you think I should get him? Since you’re his girlfriend and all.”

Ink nearly spat out her food. “I am not his girlfriend! Oh, my God, why does everyone think that? I already told you, he’s his eyes on someone else!”

Gaige smirked. “Yeah, we know. But it’s fun to tease you.”

“I’m going to buy you one of those really frilly dresses and make you wear it.”

“Ha! I’d like to see you try!”

“I’m bigger than you!”

“Not where it counts! Ha! C-cup master race!”

“But Ink has a bigger butt,” Hazel noted, “so she wins in that regard.”

“Does she really?” Treble asked.

Ink turned beet-red. “C-Can we change the topic, please?”

“Oh, look at the poor dear! She’s blushing!” Moxi winked at her. “Well, if your reaction is anything to go by, it’s that this Artifex fellow is quite the man.”

As Ink’s blush deepened, Gaige gagged, and Treble choked on his food while laughing his ass off; and Moxi laughed at the girl’s peril before relenting and saying, “I do like the idea of shopping today, though. Tell you what. Once we clear the driveway, we’ll all go to the mall together. I’ve some Christmas shopping I need to do as well. How does that sound?”

They all agreed it was a good idea. The food was finished and the table cleared; the dishes were washed; and in no time at all, Ink found herself back in her dark-purple down jacket, feeling much hotter. Her hand came to her chest; tucked in there was her notebook. She figured that between shopping she could at least maybe jot down an idea or two.

During the time she’d spent cleaning up and changing into some proper clothes, the driveway had been cleared. Thanks to the combined efforts of Treble, Mr. Mix, and a flamethrower-modified Deathtrap (where the hell did Gaige get a flamethrower, and why the hell did her family allow her to have one in the first place?!), the snow there had been flushed away, and now there was a substantial slide of black tar for them to walk on. A plow came by, clearing the street, rumbling and scraping against the road. Soon, it, too, was clear; they could leave for the city now.

But the snow still fell. Like little angels, they glided gracefully along a morning breeze. The sight was pretty, to be sure, but it filled Ink not just with a sense of quiet joy, but of quiet longing, the kind that crept out of its prison in her heart every now and then. It was like looking at a photograph, trying to figure out what it was displaying, but the photo was fuzzy, like a bad memory, and all she could remember for the most part was white…

“Hey, Ink!” Gaige called. “If you’re done staring off into the distance, then let’s go!”

“Eep! I mean, okay! I’ll be there, one sec!”

The fuzzy whiteness vanished, and Ink turned around and ran for the garage, where Gaige and everyone else were waiting for her. She tried not to look back through that window.

Canterlot was alive, and somehow it was more alive than when she and Artifex had come. More Christmas decorations had been set up, with lights adorning the streetlamps in much more complicated patterns. Some resembled snowmen; others, snowflakes. While crowds of children invaded the toy stores and the candy shops, adults flocked to the boutiques and millineries, like—Ink hated using this cliché analogy, but she figured it worked well enough here—moths to a flame.

They avoided the shops, though, and headed down Main Street. They passed the store where Artifex had gotten his gift for Sunset Shimmer. They passed Sugarcube Corner, where, surely, Pinkie and the Cakes were hard at work. Other buildings passed, mostly condos and small shops and the like, whizzing by as brick-colored blurs.

The eerie experience from before, when she’d been looking outside and had felt that odd sense of longing, had been pushed to the back of her mind. Now it was being drowned by Hazel’s screeches and Gaige’s curses as they rode along the road. Christmas music playing loudly over the radio threatened to dispose of her friends’ voices. Mr. Mix, singing along, seemed a more imminent threat in that regard.

Main Street ended in a T, being intersected by Park Row, but right in front was their destination: the Canterlot Mall. Standing an impressive height and being about the length of a football field, Ink did not doubt they’d find something in there right for each of them.

Miss Moxi parked in front of one of the big designer stores that always greeted mallgoers. The parking lot had been salted, so aside from the piles of snow that gathered at corners, it was clear to walk. They opened the doors and stepped out, and Ink took a moment to take in the fresh, cool air. This. This was what people like Artifex enjoyed: the crispness of the cold. She thought there was a hint of nutmeg in the air, which she found odd but pleasant.

“Come along, kids,” Moxi said as she began marching her way to the store’s entrance. They followed after her.

Inside, it was much warmer and also much louder. The music that was still playing the same Christmas songs over and over again was drowned out by the voices of mallgoers and mall-leavers. Ink was quick to realize this was not a typical designer store that only had clothes; it sold a whole lot more than that. Her senses were overloaded by the strong scent of far-too-expensive perfume (one of which was, oddly enough, named the Burgermeister; a reference to that old holiday movie, perhaps?) that some random customer was absentmindedly testing on the air. Feet scuffed against linoleum, not so much as squeaking so much as screeching. Her ears hurt, but only a little.

Moxi clapped her hands. “Ooh! This looks like a good place to start. Honey, I think we’ll start here.”

Treble snorted. “Please. I’m gonna go off to Hot Shots. Then the arcade. And then the food court.”

Gaige smirked. “What’s wrong, bro? Afraid of all the dresses? I thought you were into that stuff.”

“That was one time, and it was a mistake!” He then stomped away. “And you won’t hear from me until at least this chapter’s end!” he called back.

Moxi pursed her lips. “Very well, then. Shall we get going, then?”

“WE SHALL!”

They separated, with Ink and the girls going one way, and Gaige’s parents going another way. The racks of clothing closed the space between them.

“Oh, but Gaige! You’d look so cute in this one!”

“BAKA! Hazel, I’m not going to wear a yellow dress! Ever!”

“Aw, but it complements your hair!”

“No, red complements my hair! If anything, I’d wear a red dress before I wore a yellow one!”

“Fine, fine… but where are we going to find a red dress with a floral pattern?”

“We’d better not. And you’re not going to force me into anything—ACK!”

“Look, Gaige! More dresses! Ooh, you’re going to look so pretty in this one! And look over here! Isn’t that—”

“No, no! Not the makeup! Let go of me!”

As Hazel dragged Gaige away, Ink shook her head. Gaige was stubborn, that was for sure. They’d gone through nearly all of the racks on the left side of the store and she’d refused every dress on them. Granted, they’d moved kind of quickly, at Gaige’s insistence, so they didn’t have a lot of time to go over the nuances and aesthetics of each dress. But still, Ink hadn’t thought the girl would have rejected each and every garment presented.

At the very least, Hazel’s insistence that Gaige “wear something pretty so that my ship doesn’t look so stupid and bland” matched the girl’s own stubbornness. Ink wasn’t really needed in that regard. She didn’t mind.

The music changed and she found herself quietly humming along to it. Her fingers ran lightly upon the fabrics. She rubbed them between her fingers and stared at the designs, but she wasn’t really there. The song wormed its way into her mind and rested there, not invading any further, allowing her to grow accustomed to its presence.

“So lately, been wondering, who will be there to take my place… when I’m gone, you’ll need love, to light the shadows on your face…”

She stopping humming, and the song went on. There some interesting lines in there. She slipped a hand into her coat pocket and brought out her notebook. Opening it, she scribbled down:

The shadows that covered his face were like a mask, one that crossed his cheeks and blanketed his lips, but his eyes shone like flames in the night.

She paused. The song went on.

“If I could, then I would. I’ll go wherever you will go! Way up high, way down low, I’ll go wherever you will go… and maybe, I’ll work out, a way to make it back some day… towards you, to guide you, through the darkest of your days…”

They had a special kind of attraction; she found herself drawn towards him, not as a moth to a flame, but as a muse to a harp, or a man of thirst to a well of water. She needed him, she realized.

“If a great rain should fall, it’ll fall upon us all! Well, I hope there’s someone out there who can me bring me back to you!”

She was sure that was the song singing, not her, because she was still penning random markings in her notebook, and she’d slipped away from the clothing and gone off in another direction. And she would have gone off thinking that she’d fallen silent, while her mind whispered and encouraged with mercy, had she not bumped into her friends.

The song was still playing in her mind—“If I could make you mine, I’ll go wherever you will go! If I could turn back time, I’ll go wherever you will go!”—but then, suddenly, it faltered, playing like it was miles away. She realized her mouth was open but slowly closing.

“What is it?” Ink asked. The music was still playing. “Did I interrupt something?”

“N-no!” Hazel said. “It’s just… wow. I didn’t expect that.”

“Expect what?”

“Well, you’re… you. I mean, sometimes you’re loud, but I didn’t think someone like you could… I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that!” Hazel waved her arms. “I’m just, well, um, it’s just—”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Gaige smacked her forehead. “Ink, we didn’t know you could sing.”

“Sing? Wait, I was singing?”

“Hell yeah you were singing! I mean, sure, it sounds a bit untrained. But you’ve got a good voice!”

“I… do?” Ink blushed. “I-I mean, thanks, but I don’t think I’m that good… It’s just one of my favorite songs. It has a nice tune and all.” She blinked. “Was I really that loud that you could hear me over the song?”

Gaige smirked. “No, you were just close enough that we could hear you. In fact, I think the entire store could!”

Ink ducked behind a clothing rack. “The entire store?!”

“Gaige,” Hazel scolded, “you’re scaring her! Don’t worry, Ink. I’m pretty sure it was just us two who heard you.”

“Oh, okay.” She gulped. “Good. Sorry…”

“Don’t be! You were really good! That’s nothing to be embarrassed about!”

“I mean, not as good as me,” Gaige said, “but still pretty good.”

While Hazel fixed her with a harsh glare, Ink offered a giggle. It felt good to laugh it out. “Yeah, that’s probably true.”

She looked at the clothing rack they were next to, which was filled with the floral-pattern dresses Hazel had mentioned. Next to these were somewhat thicker outfits that somewhat resembled robes: kimonos, Ink thought, the word emerging from dusty pages.

“Find anything?” she said.

Gaige shook her head. “Nope. And we aren’t going to find anything here.”

Hazel was pouting. “Aw, but Gaige—”

“No buts! There’s nothing here, okay? Come on, let’s go.”

“Go? Go where?”

“Go to the rest of the mall, obviously. Clothes shopping is so boring.”

“You didn’t think that when you got that princess dress for Flash.”

Gaige turned bright-red. “That’s different! It was a one-time thing!”

“But it can be more than that if you just put on this dress God damn it Gaige—”

“No! Get away, Hazel! Hazel, aaaghh!”

She was screaming and darting away as Hazel chased after her with several dresses clutched firmly in her hand. Soon, she dropped them and opted to simply run after her. The dresses clattered on the floor. Ink stooped down, picked them up, put them on the rack, and shook her head, before following the girls. The music came back on. She was humming again.

There were more clothes stores, all open, all playing holiday-themed music, all with their fancy lights and Christmas specials and sales and perfumes and models and whatnot. In none of them did Ink find Hazel or Gaige, and in none of them did she expect to find them.

An onlooker might have found it comedic to see this lone girl trail after two others, who were obviously more excited and active than the former. They would have found it odd to see the lone girl with a pen in her mouth, carefully maneuvering past benches and sample reclining sofas, pausing at some of the store windows, scribbling something down in her notebook, murmuring something to herself; all while her companions jostled and teased and begged and pushed each other. Ink couldn’t really care, though. She was trying to craft a picture in her mind and transcribe it to her paper, but while she had some interesting lines, the problem, as always, persisted.

With a furrowed brow she followed them around a corner. Her eyes fell from them to her notebook. The words and lines danced around and around, like a waltz, spinning and twirling. She pictured them floating off of the page, becoming like blue, inky snowflakes. She read over the line about the man’s face and his shadows. She tried to see him in her mind, but found she could not. She did the same with the female’s line; but there was nothing there. Words without form. Words without substance. Words without real meaning or purpose or character.

Strange, she thought, chewing on her pen. Both Artifex and Gaige basically said the same thing. Character is important when you’re writing a story, but it’s got to be real character, not fake. Not something you pull out of… She paused, looked through one of the windows, saw one of the signs hanging there, with a long-sleeve-shirt-bound teen whose smile was too white to be natural and whose hair was too perfect to not have been condensed or cropped in some way. Not something you pull out of stock images, she decided.

Her friends went on, and so did she. There were a lot more people now. They came in great droves and Ink’s friends’ voices were quickly drowned out by theirs. Ink heard cackling parents and screeching children. Her mind was filled with noise. It did not annoy or bother her, but it was there, grating but not terribly so, background noise, white noise—that was what it was called, yes—noise that existed simply to fill a perceived, empty space.

They turned another corner and were in a huge opening. A column of invisible air rose between them and the floors above and below. She paused to look up, saw hundreds of feet thundering up and down and around. The escalators rumbled. People’s voices blurred together. Christmas music again filled everything that wasn’t already filled. Noise. Lots of noise.

She lost sight of Gaige and Hazel. She didn’t know this because she was busy scribbling and dodging and weaving, but she noticed anyway when she looked up, intending to call for her friends to slow down. They weren’t in front of her nor behind her. As far as she could tell, they were gone, lost in the crowd.

She felt a brief moment of panic, and the noise became a roaring tsunami. She stepped off to the side to catch her bearings. She couldn’t get them. She scanned the crowd, looking for orange pigtails or long, brown hair. Nothing. She stood on her tip-toes. Nothing. She rocked back and forth on her heels, humming, trying to stay calm. The panic nonetheless grew. She bit her lip, hard, not caring for the pain, feeling guilty and ashamed to have been so easily misguided. She’d been lost in her thoughts, a terrible place to be lost in—

“Fancy seeing you here.”

He was next to her, smiling thinly, his teeth just visible behind his lips. She nearly yelped, and even if she had, she doubted she’d be able to be heard. She turned around sharply and was met with cerulean. She spun too quickly and wobbled; a cane shot out and held her in place.

“Artifex!” she gasped. “How—why—”

“Luck,” he said. “Chance. Same thing, really.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Mallgoing, obviously. What else would you do at a mall?”

“Shop?”

“I could. But I’ve already gotten my gifts.”

He cocked his head. “You were panicking there, Ink.”

“Biting my lip, I know. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize.”

“I was with some friends, see. And I was trying to write at the same time, and when I looked up, well, they were gone.”

“Lost in thought?”

“Was there any ever doubt?”

“You should work to keep your head on straight. You’ll miss many things with a nose in a book.”

“This isn’t an ordinary book; it’s a notebook.”

He smiled, then beckoned for her to follow. “Why?” she asked. “Do you know where they are?”

“No,” he said. “But maybe we’ll find them along the way.”

“Guess your company is better than no company. Marginally,” she added, flicking a stray strand of indigo hair out of her face.

“I’m glad you rank me so highly. Come on, you.”

They went, cutting through the crowd, to some destination that Ink could not see. But she trusted Artifex to know where he was going; he didn’t seem the type to get lost. More clothing stores and knickknack stores and miscellaneous stores popped up and vanished behind them. More people showed up. More crowds appeared. Where were they going and why were they going there? She didn’t know, but she didn’t ask.

They reached an opening, went through it, and Ink had to take a moment to gather her bearings. Now they were in front of the mall-entrance to another big designer store: Stacy’s, as the neon sign above demonstrated. It didn’t seem like a place Artifex would go to for a gift. But then again, stranger things had happened.

She had been lost in her thoughts long enough for Artifex to get away from her, and she hurried after him, still looking around.

“Oh, there you are,” came an unfamiliar voice. “What took you so long?”

“Found a friend in need,” Artifex replied.

Ink peeked around Artifex. Before him was a pale-yellow-skinned boy, his height, with baby-blue hair and dressed in a heavy winter coat. His set of bright, amethyst eyes were wide and curled up at the corners when he smiled. “Oh, hey!” he said when he saw Ink looking. “You’re Ink Quill, right?”

“U-uh, yeah.” She swallowed her confusion and nodded. “How’d you guess?”

“Artifex told me about you!” The boy held out a hand. “My name’s Nostradamus Clue, but my friends call me No Clue.”

Ink took his hand. The name was familiar. “Right, you, me, and Artifex all had Mr. Solil at the beginning of the year, but you dropped out, right?”

He winced, but nodded. “Yeah. It was more challenging than I expected. My new Language Arts class is better suited for my level, though.”

Ink said, “And you’re the guy who’s friends with Blueblood and Brutos?”

“Really? Are these really the things I’m known for?”

She shrugged. “Sorry. I don’t really know you that well beyond what people already know about you.”

He rubbed the back of his head, embarrassed. “Well, I guess that’s better than nothing. Anyway, what brings you to the mall, Ink?”

“What else? Shopping.”

“Oh, right… should have guessed that.” They exchanged cordial giggles all around, while Artifex simply shook his head.

“That’s not all, though,” Ink continued. “I was actually with a group, but we got separated.”

“A group? Who was in it?”

“You probably don’t know them. Gaige and Hazel—”

“Gonna have to cut you off there, Ink,” Artifex said. “Our third party needs some help.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

He pointed with his cane. Clue and Ink both turned.

Someone emerged from Stacy’s, pushing a creaky, plastic shopping cart whose front wheels couldn’t touch the ground. Several boxes had been stacked inside of the cart, none of which looked particularly stable or balanced. Plastic bags hung by their corners and off of the handle of the cart, and these were filled with an assortment of items. There was so much that, at first, Ink couldn’t see exactly who the person was behind it. But judging from the grunting and groaning, they were having quite some trouble.

She heard No Clue let out a shrill whistle. “Dang! Big Mac got a lot more than I expected!”

Big Mac?

Sure enough, as he entered into their field of view, Ink caught sight of his peach skin. Sweat dripped off of his face and his arms were pushing against the cloth that covered them. To her continued shock, more bags hung around his shoulders and off of his elbows; despite his muscle-bound self, he seemed about to collapse. It didn’t help that he was limping.

“Big Mac?” Artifex said. “You need some help?”

“E-eenope,” he grunted out.

Artifex raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that? You—oof!”

Ink brushed past him without a moment’s thought. She walked up to Mac and stopped him, laying an arm on his shoulder. “Don’t push yourself, Mac. Your leg’s still injured!”

He barely acknowledged her with a nod. “ ‘S’fine. It don’t hurt too bad.”

“Don’t be stubborn; you’re gonna collapse if you keep straining yourself like that!”

“Hrph. Thanks, Ink, but—mmph!—don’t need no help.”

“Well, I won’t take no for an answer. Here.” She took a bag from his shoulder and nearly fell over; looking inside, she saw he’d packaged several vases. “Geez! Mac, what’re you doing carrying around this stuff?”

He didn’t answer. He was still straining against the cart.

Ink turned to the other boys. They were, for some reason, just staring. “Don’t just stand there! Help him!”

They immediately leaped into action (figuratively speaking; No Clue was not athletic, and Artifex’s limp impaired him anyway). They pulled bags from the cart even as Mac protested, and he even attempted to swat them away, to no avail. The cart soon held a more reasonable amount of gifts; Artifex and Clue were burdened by the bags they had to carry; and while Ink appeared satisfied and smug, Mac looked none-too-happy.

“Ah was fine,” he grunted again.

Ink rolled her eyes. “Sure you were. But now you’re better, see?”

Mac groaned. “Arty, please, back me up here.”

“No can do, big guy. When Ink sets her mind on something, no one can stop her.”

“But you’ve got a limp, too!”

Artifex simply smiled, tapping the ground with his cane. “Sure. But you needed help and we gave you it—”

“At my insistence!”

“At your insistence, Ink, of course. No limp is going to stop me from doing that. Right, Clue?”

“Um, I don’t have a limp, but yeah.”

Mac groaned. “Fine. ‘Scuse me while Ah die from embarrassment.”

“Aw, there’s no need to be embarrassed!” Ink said, clapping him on the shoulder and immediately bouncing off. “Ow! Dang, you’re big…”

“It’s in my name.”

“Right, right.” She came forward and rubbed the part where she’d clapped him. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Mac laughed. “Frankly, Ink, Ah don’t think you could.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Is that a challenge?”

“No-o! It’s a fact!”

“Facts can be challenged. Here, hold still—”

She tried to hit him again, only to bounce off and to be greeted with his laughter. “Y’know, Ah think that tickled a little,” he said. She could practically feel his grin cutting across his face.

She blew a strand of hair out of her face. “Yeah? You think you’re so tough, big guy?” She reeled back and tried again, forgetting that 1) he was injured and 2) he was a literal big guy. She didn’t even pause when Artifex and Clue tried to protest her.

Just as she was about to go in for the final blow—

“INKY!”

She paused. “Is that who I think it is?”

“DAMN IT, HAZEL! QUIT YOUR SHOUTING!”

She saw Artifex raise an eyebrow. “Oh, good, her.”

No Clue appeared confused. “Wait, who are they?”

Artifex pinched his nose; Ink rolled her eyes. Together they said, “It’s a long story.”

“AND DON’T FORGET ABOUT ME!”

Clue said, “And that is?”

Artifex looked to Ink. “Treble?”

She nodded. “Treble.” He pinched his nose again.

They came around, toting weighted, plastic bags and bearing—for the most part—kind smiles, though Gaige’s seemed like it was being forced up by Hazel’s sheer, overwhelming personality.

They approached, and Gaige’s smile slipped off for a second as she and Artifex regarded each other. Ink felt a flutter in her chest; she knew the two weren’t particularly good friends, but Gaige looked like she was about to throttle him.

“Artemis,” Gaige said. Ink mentally face-palmed, expecting Artifex to call her out.

Instead, he replied, “Tool.” And Gaige laughed. It was short, but it was sweet; she had laughed.

“Someday I’ll get your name right,” she promised. Artifex shook his head, and Ink saw the barest hint of a smile on his face.

They greeted the others then, with less volatile reactions. Overall they were amicable and friendly. Gaige explained that she and Hazel had realized they’d lost Ink, then had seen her come this way with Artifex, and they had just happened to bump into Treble on the way over. “I was done saying hi to my girlfriend anyway,” he said.

“Girlfriend? Oh, Vinyl. Right,” Ink said.

He mock-glowered at her. “Hey, just because my story’s been on a hiatus for a while now doesn’t mean you can forget me and my relationship!”

“I… what?”

“Don’t question it,” said Gaige with a shake of her head. “Anyway, what are you all doing here?”

“Shopping,” Artifex immediately answered.

“Don’t you get smart with me, Frosty.”

“Someone has to be in this conversation—ow!” She’d somehow gotten close to him without noticing and had bopped him in the shoulder. “Fine. But it’s true. We four were all shopping together for the holidays.” He glanced up at Treble. “By the way, how’s the party planning coming along?”

“ ‘S good! Kinda shoehorned in, if I’m being honest, but hey, it seems appropriate. Right?”

“… right.”

“ ‘We four?’ ” Ink repeated. “You mean me? But I just got here.”

“Oh, no, not you. I meant—hey, Mac, where is he right now?”

“Last Ah saw, he was shopping still. Over by those bracelets, Ah think.”

“Actually,” said Clue, “here he comes now.”

They turned back to the Stacy’s and saw a blue-skinned, white-haired young man walking out. Amidst the colorful coats and jackets, he was a bit of an oddity, for he wore a plain, black sweater that probably had seen better days. He clutched in his hands a grey, plastic bag, and his smile was wide; obviously, he was happy with his purchase. Ink thought she could see a faint blush on his cheeks, not from shame, but from… nervousness? Trepidation? Maybe she was reading him all wrong.

He saw them, and the blush faded as he walked towards them. “Heya, Lone!” Clue chirped. “You certainly look happy.”

“Yeah,” “Lone” said. “It took a while and it cost me a whole lot, but I think I did okay.”

Artifex leaned over and took a peek in the bag. “I wouldn’t worry, man. I’m sure she’ll like it—whoever she is.”

Lone blushed. “C-can’t a guy have his secrets?”

“Sure he can. But his friends are going to pry them loose, I’ll tell you that.” He glanced at Ink; she pantomimed her confusion. “Ah, right. You two haven’t met yet. If you would step over here, Lone…”

Lone did so, and it was then that he finally saw Ink. She frowned. He was tall. Taller than she’d expected, at least, and was probably about Big Mac’s height. She realized she was staring, gasped, and shook herself.

“Ink Quill, please meet Lone Wolf,” Artifex said, gesturing between the two of them. “Lone here goes to Crystal Prep. Hopefully that won’t be a problem?”

“As long as he isn’t super pretentious about it,” she said, regarding the other boy with a measure of surprise. “You don’t seem that way, anyway.”

Lone rubbed his head. “To be fair, I’m—no pun intended, seriously—kind of the ‘lone wolf’ of Crystal Prep. I’m their newest kid, anyway, so I don’t really know or get why you guys all hate each other.”

He offered a hand. Ink smiled and took it, bowing slightly. “Well, I’m sure we’ll figure it all out one day. Nice to meet you, Lone.”

“You, too, Ink.” They released their hands. Lone smirked. “So. Artifex. Is she your girl—”

“No!” they both shouted. Ink thought she could hear a faint squealing from behind her; she could only guess who it was.

Lone shrugged. “Hey, you bother me about my love life, I bother you about yours.” He looked over Ink’s shoulder. “Oh! Hi, there, Gaige!”

“ACK! HE KNOWS ME!”

Ink turned around. Gaige’s face was lit up like a red, Christmas ornament.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” said Treble. He nudged her forward. “Go and say hi!”

“N-no! I-I-I mean—”

Too late. She was already next to Ink. She couldn’t even look straight at Lone. “U-um, h-hi, L-Lone. F-fancy seeing y-you h-here.”

Lone appeared confused, then shrugged. “Yeah. It’s nice seeing you, too, Gaige.” He pet her head; she appeared like she was about to faint.

They all exchanged pleasantries, and while they did that, Ink returned to trying to help Mac with his load. He tried to shoo her way, to no avail, as his arms were still stiff and tense from all that he had been holding. “Maybe you need a massage,” she suggested as she moved another bag off of him.

She caught his embarrassed glare and laughed. “What? It’s just a suggestion.”

“Ah don’t do massages.”

“Why not? You should consider it. I hear they work wonders.”

“Ain’t no way Ah’m letting some spa girl put her hands on my bare butt!”

She stifled a giggle as her cheeks warmed. “Uh, Big Mac? You know not all places make you strip down to nothing, right?”

His face was red again. It was too much; she broke out into more laughter, even as he tried to dissuade her from doing so.

Then she heard Moxi come around; she could tell by her sugary voice loudly greeting Gaige and the others. She heard Mac groan, “Is everyone coming here today? Who’s next, Pinkie?”

She couldn’t resist. “Actually…”

“AH WAS KIDDING!” And her laughter could not be contained any longer. Soon it spread past his embarrassed façade; they shared that warm mirth.

Eventually she went back to Gaige and Hazel. While the former was busy trying to hide behind her brother, the latter stared at Ink with a dazed expression, like she was in another world. Ink realized she’d probably been staring at her and Mac.

“Something wrong, Hazel?” she asked.

Hazel blinked, then shook her head and smiled. Her brown eyes returned to their happy-go-lucky normal. “O-oh, no. Just thinking, that’s all.”

Ink nodded. “Okay. If that’s all.”

“Say goodbye to your friends, dears,” Moxi said. They did, with Ink throwing in a comment about signing Mac up for a spa visit. He said he’d rather die, and to this she laughed. That laughter carried itself with her even as they all bid farewell and left their separate ways, even as they piled into Moxi’s car and drove off for home. It would carry itself with her and remain with her for the rest of the weekend.

Chapter Ten: A Prime Example

Author's Notes:

Wow, that only took... nearly two months.

A... lot has happened since then. And I do mean a lot. Personal stuff. Really personal stuff. And to be frank, I've been focusing less on fanfiction and more on my first draft of my novel (which is coming along rather nicely, knock on wood it doesn't suddenly seize up and die). In terms of frequent updates... expect realistically little.

But anyway, late as it is, here's Chapter Ten.

Ink awoke in a daze. She’d been dreaming—she was sure of it—but the moment her eyes fluttered, the dream was lost to time. She blinked, feeling sluggish and confused.

She glanced to the side of her bed, where she saw her alarm clock. It was twenty minutes before she had set it to go off. She’d woken early, too early. She considered going back to bed, but after a minute of deliberation, decided that staying up would be far easier than trying to convince herself to stay asleep.

She untangled herself from under her bedsheets and came off the bed in a dazed rush. It was still dark, and she could see the shine of the moon spilling itself across her windowsill. She stopped and listened. There were a few birds chirping, but those were stray ones. They would be leaving for the south in no time; mornings would be quiet from then on.

It was silent in the house. Her mom wasn’t up yet. She glanced at her calendar and saw it was Monday, December the 15^th. Just a little more than a week before Christmas. Her mind wandered. Had she gotten all the gifts she needed? Was there a party she needed to prepare for? The thoughts came and went without much answer, and she decided that was okay for now.

She yawned, went to the bathroom, washed up, came back, and dressed. She could go eat breakfast; there was a light draft going through the house, so some warm toast and butter sounded good. For some reason, though, her eyes fell onto her notebook and laptop on her desk. Her lips twisted, not into an unpleasant frown, but not quite a smile either. She checked the clock. Ten minutes left before her alarm was supposed to go off. She walked over to them, sat down, and opened them both up.

Some time ago, she’d read somewhere that if you wanted to get anywhere with what you were writing, it had to be the first thing you did each day. She’d not gotten into that habit due to school, but here she was, up and early, staring at her tools, her words. Her notebook contained all the notes she’d taken so far, and her laptop had that one, sweet, definitive line, the line that she felt was the perfect way to start.

All of a sudden, she began to remember; or maybe it was like she was dreaming while she was awake. There were memories, fragments and shards of them, none of which made sense, all of which were mashed together like some strange art piece. She felt her mind go blank, then felt nothing at all, not even the feeling of her fingers dancing across her keyboard and the movement of her lips as she read to herself the words that were forming. Was she remembering, or dreaming, or both? The words came and they came freely. There was a word, then more words, then a sentence, then more sentences, then a paragraph, then another paragraph, then another, and another, and then there was a page, a page and a half, two pages—

Her alarm went off. Her fingers jerked and seized at random. They pressed a certain combination of buttons—her addled brain couldn’t keep up—and, in one fell swoop, the document closed before she’d hit save. She heard beeping and saw her deskstop wallpaper. The beeping faded into a roaring sound.

Ink’s scream woke up the entire neighborhood. Only her mother’s was louder.

Bar a crappy morning spent stewing in self-pity (and cursing herself, her computer, her life, and, well, her computer again), Ink managed to get to school without dramatic incident. She was, for a moment, thankful to see the doors, but then her mind returned to the now blank page that insisted on existing on her laptop, and her mind soured.

She went through her first class with a hazy mind, spending the time doing the work without much care and chewing on the cap of her pen. She barely registered Gaige’s voice over the voices screaming in her head. Mr. Turner’s lesson was even more lackluster; all she managed to get out of it was something about “vectors being very important.” By the time that class had ended, she’d sustained several bruises from Gaige wailing on her with her tiny fists—ones that a sane person would have checked out—yet still she was lost in the fog of her thoughts.

It was much the same with every other morning class, save for the bruises. There was a moment, in her second block class, when she had the freedom to jot down her thoughts on a piece of paper, but that freedom was ultimately useless. She’d written those pages when she was in a certain, entrancing haze. Anything she wrote now felt wrong and misconstrued. She tried to write what she remembered, but that still felt false and forced. Simply put, her mind and her heart weren’t connected; she could not transcribe the words that flowed through her without form onto something so physically dependent.

Later on she would realize that saying it was “simply put” was hardly a true statement.

Lunch came, then, and Gaige was not there to pester her. She’d decided on bothering (or being bothered? It was sometimes hard to tell) Flash Sentry for a little while. Ink didn’t mind. It would be nice to get some time alone, even if she was in a crowded room.

She scanned the room, anyway, for any sign of Artifex. She spotted him and his shock of white hair at their usual spot (could she even call it “theirs,” if she had been there for only a little while?), and walked over to him. “Hey, Artifex,” she called. She didn’t receive a reply; not that she expected one. She sat down on the side opposite of him.

It was then she realized two things: 1) there was an amber-skinned girl next to Artifex, and 2) she was visibly trying hard not to laugh.

Ink recognized her as Sunset Shimmer. She furrowed her brow, lips coming into each other. “Sunset? What’s so funny?”

“He-ha! You, Ink!” Sunset replied through a hand-covered mouth. “Take another look at Artifex!”

She did so, noticing at first that he wasn’t wearing his usual yellow jacket. In place of it was a white-and-black one, slightly thicker. Ink’s gaze traveled to the boy’s face where—unless it was a trick of the light—eyes of teal stared back at her in a confused—and somewhat amused—manner.

Ink blinked. This wasn’t Artifex. This was someone else.

She looked between the boy and Sunset, noting their close proximity to one another. The conclusion hit her like a slap, and her face burned and she buried it in her hands.

“Oh my God,” she groaned. “Soul! Soul Writer! Not Artifex.”

Soul Writer laughed. “Wow! Do he and I really like that similar?”

“You do have similar hair styles and color,” Sunset said, also laughing. “I wouldn’t blame Ink for confusing the two of you, especially since you and she hadn’t met until now.”

“Wait,” Ink said, peeking past her fingers and peering at the other girl. “You know me?”

Sunset nodded. “Yep. Artifex told us about you and your writing problem, as well as what you’ve been trying to do. Going around talking to Canterlot High’s couples? It’s not orthodox, but hey, whatever works.”

Good. That would save her time in the explanation department. Ink’s hands came down and she said, “So that means you’re here to help?”

Sunset’s smile was dazzling. “Of course! We’re always willing to help out a friend of a friend!”

Ink smiled back. “That sounds like something Pinkie would say.”

“She has been rubbing off on me as of late.” Somehow, that tickled Ink’s sense of humor, and she laughed. She recalled the stories of Sunset, how she’d been absolutely cruel; but here and now, she was a completely different person. Friendship had done wonders to her. It was a no-brainer why she was now one of, if not the most popular, girl in all of Canterlot High.

Sunset brought her hands together in a clap, still grinning that confident grin. “So! How should we do this? You ask questions, we give answers, and then you write those answers down?”

Ink nodded and reached into her backpack for her notebook. “It’s kinda formulaic,” she admitted with a slight blush. “Mostly it’s just me asking about what you think love is and all that.”

“Artifex gave you that idea, huh?” Sunset said, and something in her voice suggested she was implying something else.

Ink didn’t know what. “Actually, it was Big Mac,” she said. This caused Soul, who had been downing a soda, to do a spit-take (luckily in a direction away from them).

“Big Mac? My cousin? Him?”

Ink nodded. “Yeah, I guess it’s kinda unbelievable. But, hey, it’s working! I got a lot done this morning!” She grinned when she said this; then the grin faded. “Then the laptop deleted everything…”

The other two students winced, apologetic. “Ouch,” Soul said. “This is why they say you should have a USB stick with you at all times.”

Ink rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, I sort of did what every other student did and ignored that. Bit too late, I guess.” She cleared her throat. “Anyway… not much I can do about that other than rewrite everything. So it’d be better for me to not think about it. At least for now.”

The others nodded. “Okay.” Sunset placed her hands on the table, palms down. “What first?”

Ink flipped to her questions. The cafeteria grew a little more settled and quieter—or perhaps she was just concentrating a little better, now that she was in her (relative) element. “You guys have been together for how long?” she began.

“Two years,” Soul said. “I was the new kid and Sunny was kind enough to show me around.”

“Really? You’d just moved in?”

“Mmhmm! It was nerve-wracking.” He paused, then rubbed the back of his head. “Guess that’s why I easily became friends with Artifex. He was new, then, too. I sort of understood where he was coming from.”

Again, there was that underlying tone that he knew more than he let on, but that careful smile and crinkled eyes made it hard for her to want to know more. He seemed earnest enough.

“But you guys didn’t start dating immediately?” Ink then asked. She was chewing on the end of her pen, mostly out of habit.

“Oh, no,” Sunset said. “Honestly, it would have been a little weird. I mean, it was a little bit after the Fall Formal, and while the school and everyone had pretty much forgiven me, it was just weird to get back into the dating scene. Especially since I had been dating Flash—speaking of whom, he seems happy with Gaige, so that’s good.”

“I dunno, Sunset,” Soul said. “I think there were some sparks on the first day. Remember Rainbow kicking the ball and me saving you from it?”

Sunset giggled. “Okay. I’ll give you that. But we weren’t really dating until sometime later.”

Ink asked them if they’d be willing to share how they actually did get together, to which they eagerly jumped on board. By the time they’d finished, Ink had two pages worth of notes about crushes, jewelry, and how not to let Pinkie help you with getting a girlfriend. Standard stuff, Ink thought, but still amusing all the same.

“Sounds like you guys had it all planned out from the start,” she commented.

To this, Sunset laughed. “Planned? Hardly. Soul and I sort of winged it for the most part.”

“Really? How’d that go?”

“Rather smoothly,” Sunset said. “We were being each other, with each other. That’s what being in a relationship really is all about, you know. Accepting one another. It’s the case with romance, and it’s the case with friendship.”

Ink made a small note about that. “I see. But what if you two didn’t get along?”

They looked at each other, eyes a bit wide. It was a moment before either said anything.

“Honestly,” began Soul, “I’m not sure. From the get-go we got along pretty well. It’s hard to imagine us being anything less than friends.”

Sunset nodded. “They say that your partner is going to be the best worst friend you could ever hope for. So when you’re in a relationship, you’d better be prepared to butt heads from time to time.”

“Yeah, like over how someone here doesn’t think Star Wars is an absolute masterpiece.”

“I just said that it’s okay for a sci-fi film—”

They had some playful banter while Ink continued writing, but her thoughts were as loud as they and the cafeteria were. She was writing without thinking. In her head she saw an image of a faceless man and a faceless girl, in the snow, on a cold, winter night, hands locked together. A scene was forming, slowly—the pieces; they were settling together; but they weren’t concise, and they were loose at the edges, so they fell apart easily. But she kept trying to put them together, like a first-grader trying to do a 100-piece puzzle…

“Ink?”

Another interruption. The image was gone; but she wasn’t mad, for when it left she forgot it had ever came. She glanced up from her writing. “Hmm?”

Sunset had spoken. She seemed a tad bit concerned. “Just wondering if what we’ve said has been any help.”

Ink couldn’t resist saying, “Well, the Star Wars thing isn’t really relevant—”

“Isn’t really relevant?!”

“—but, yeah, I think this helps.” She waved her hands in front of her, at the filled notebook. “It looks messy, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, yeah,” Sunset said, nodding. “Messy certainly describes it.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sense of it. It’s not too bad.” She paused, then stared into Sunset’s eyes. “You’ve all been really helpful. Honestly. You don’t need to worry about that.”

She offered a smile, which Sunset—and eventually Soul—returned. “And that’s about it,” Ink said. She closed her notebook, pushed it back into her backpack.

“You sure?” Sunset asked.

Ink shrugged. “Well, for now, anyway. Maybe there’ll be more questions; no, there probably will be. But right now, I’m hungry.” She grabbed her lunch. “And I don’t want to be a starving artist just yet!”

Chapter Eleven - Interlude: A Wintry Evening

Ink knew she was putting on nothing more than a facade, but she couldn’t help it. It felt so trivial from a larger perspective; someone moping over the perfect chapter that they’d written only to lose it as one might lose the fragments of a dream? That didn’t warrant, in her mind, the shoulder of her friends. That was for far more critical situations, like struggling grades, a loved one in peril…

There you go again, girl. Romanticizing. God.

She walked out of Canterlot High, her head a mess of thought and fragmented ideas. She did not walk home with Gaige or Hazel as she might have. She did not say goodbye to her other friends or her teachers. She went down the sidewalk, boots crunching through the snow, kicking up the piles of white, hands in her pockets. Her breath came out in as a fine mist. Her cheeks warmed red as the cool air kissed them gently.

Above was a white topaz sky, filled with clouds. Snow came down in soft flurries, dotting her face and the sidewalk. She passed parked cars slowly becoming enveloped by the snow. The road was covered in a thin layer of it; soon, a plow would come by, clear it away, salt the rest.

She brought a hand to her forehead and groaned into her forearm. If only her laptop hadn’t decided to die then and there. Of all the times to forget to save, this was definitely the dumbest.

Well, at least I’ve the notes I’ve taken… but are they enough?

Honest to God she hoped they were, but she couldn’t be certain. They were just notes on a subject she hardly understood. Could she say she had taken enough? Should she take more? Could you really study something as abstract and as personal as love from a distance? Could you write it if you had no experience with it? What was that saying: “Write what you know.”? Did that mean she couldn’t write love?

She shook her head. Snow bounced off but she hardly noticed. There were so many thoughts—too many, in fact—and no matter how hard she sought to push them away, they always returned, nagging and jabbing into her like pocket knives made of some intangible aether. Compelled by their reckless abandon for her privacy, she turned the corner and headed down the sidewalk, not once raising her head.

It was as if a heavy cloud carried itself over her, dropping insecurities and uncertainties with each step she took. Again and again she was confronted with the question of Could she? How many notes could she take before she would arrive at her answer? Could she get an answer?

Not that asking such questions actually yielded anything substantial—she knew this, deeply and personally, and yet could not stop herself. She wondered if Artifex was rubbing off on her; but then again, she’d never heard him voice his insecurities before.

Get a grip, girl! You gotta write this darn thing somehow, so there’s no point in spilling tears over missing pages.

She sighed, breath coming out in a puff of white. But I can’t help but feel I’m missing something! Something important, something crucial. If I could only figure out what…!

At that moment, her steps no longer continued forward. She looked up and found herself just outside Canterlot.

She took it all in: the cars rolling down the street, the trolley between them, the month-early Christmas music jingling, the brisk and flowing air, the totality of society condensed in a singular unit of prosperity, the flickering of the neon billboards above. She was never one for the city, but she never was one quite against it. Artifex had once tried to show her why it was the greatest place on earth, but the magic wasn’t quite the same.

But she could not deny its marvelous complexity, this city, and she could not deny that it was the source of many’s inspiration. It glowed with life and meaning. But not any more than the rest of the world, she realized; in equal amounts, perhaps spread out differently, but spread evenly all the same.

She stared down the sidewalk, down the pathways, the byways, the street and the alleyways, into open shops and closed ones, over the heads of passerbys and passengers. She stared, long and hard, lost in her formless thoughts, thinking.

The perfect romance…

Her thoughts became less concrete as she continued to stare. She knew she was confused, knew that something was blocking her creative outflow. Yet she, in staring out at the bright vibrancy set before her, felt some sort of kinship with it. An understanding? No, a mutual agreement; a compromise, of sorts, with that blockage.

“Ink?”

She knew that voice well.

Turning, she saw there, leaning gently on his cane, face not the least-bit red from the cold, eyes narrow, frown concerned and questioning.

She laughed a little. “Seriously, how are you not cold? It’s snowing!”

He didn’t answer, instead walking over, careful not to slip where there might be ice. Then he stood by her, and together they stared out into the city.

“You will hate me for asking this,” he said, “but how goes the novel?”

“It doesn’t.”

“Ah. Writer’s block?”

“Sort of. I had a good chapter going this morning, but then my laptop cut out…”

“My condolences.”

“It’s fine.”

“It really isn’t.”

“... No, I guess it isn’t.”

Another silence followed. It somehow did not feel off-putting.

“I think I’m just confused about what I really want to say,” Ink murmured. “It’s so hard to put everything to words, especially when there’s so much I want to say in the first place. And I know you said that good writing tells the truth, and I know I have that first line down—but, I don’t know. I feel like I’m always missing something.”

“Aren’t we all? Do all stories start off smoothly?”

“All the best ones seem to, anyway.”

“Only with hard work and determination.”

“And luck.”

“And luck. Definitely.”

“I’m… I don’t know what I am, Artifex. Maybe this is just a moment for me, or maybe it’s a sign of a larger problem. ‘She fell in love once…’ That’s all I’ve got in terms of solid writing so far.”

“You’re getting hung up on that.”

“Can you blame me? It just feels right, and…”

“And you’re afraid the rest of the story won’t be able to match up to it.”

Here she fell silent as she toyed with what was said. Artifex nodded. “You fear that in writing that line, that soulfully truthful line, your story will not be able to prove it. You fear that you have already expended all of your energy in crafting the perfect opening statement that you cannot continue, for fear of mocking it.”

“I guess so…”

He turned to her, an eyebrow raised, eyes twinkling just like the falling snow. She was drawn to them. “Feel free to correct me,” he said. “I’m really just extrapolating here.”

“Well, I can’t say you’re wrong. Or that you’re right. I don’t know.” She paused, then sighed. “I don’t know…”

He was gazing at her; she could feel his gaze set on her, intense and questioning, frigid like this blizzard but soft like this snow. She waited for him to say something, anything.

But the snow kept on coming, and he said nothing, and she felt the snow gather on her neck, and she shivered and her teeth chattered and her knees wobbled. I’d better get moving before I freeze, she thought, before, with those wobbling, unsteady legs of hers, advancing forward.

Then she felt hands slip around her shoulders—and Artifex was beside her, holding her steady. His presence was unusually warm and reassuring. “Ink,” was all he said.

And that was enough. Her frustration transformed into wariness, and she leaned into him, eyes closed. “I’m sorry,” she heard herself murmuring, though for what reason she didn’t know.

But Artifex replied, “It’s okay,” and she believed him.

They stood there, together, two friends locked in a steadying embrace, for a long time, until the line of cars and buses slowed, and the city before them began to quiet. They came out of the hug, cold but also warm. Ink regarded Artifex with a mix of gratitude and exhaustion.

He tapped his cane twice on the ground, attempting a smile. “Let’s go, Ink,” he said.

She nodded. Together they began the journey back home.

Author's Notes:

Weeks.

Weeks spent away from this chapter, from this story. Weeks that became a month, two months, almost three.

There are several reasons why this story had suddenly dropped off the radar. One was that my old laptop, on which I had written the majority of the chapters, fried; I lost my progress, my organization, and then my motivation. The calendar system I had so intricately created so as to keep this story and those that preceded it was erased, and I no longer felt as connected to it as I had in the past.

The story drifted into the far recesses of my mind. My novel came first, I reasoned, and so I put everything else aside but that. The first draft was completed, but still did Spilling Ink remain dormant.

Other things cropped up: deeply personal, dark, and depressing issues that crippled me entirely and required time spent away from everything. All writing grinded to a halt. There was little joy in it.

Yet here I am. With a new chapter. Why?

Because my problems have begun to be solved. They've been addressed. I've the strength to move on, to live on. I'm in a better place, now, more than I had ever been in.

Because of that, this story surfaced in my mind once again. There is drive there; low, perhaps weak, but still there. I remembered what I wanted to say and how I wanted to say it; I envisioned how I wanted it to end.

One chapter was written, and now another is while I write this author's note. The story is alive, again. Time will tell if it remains that way.

Chapter Twelve: The New Dawn

Artifex suggested that Ink take a break from writing, and at first, she vehemently refused. How could she, when she had been struggling with writer’s block for a long while? Wouldn’t taking a break now ruin her flow?

“What flow?” he had responded evenly, and she was silent at that.

His explanation made sense: she had one line, one good line, and yet no idea of plot or substance. Only the barebones existed, and even then, he argued, the barebones was not enough to jump into a story. No, she needed to take time away, because only then would the story would leap out at her; once she was sufficiently away from a piece, her subconscious, without her knowing, would be exploring every possibility, and her frustration and block would vanish at the opportune time.

“But what about that whole thing I wrote?” she had protested. “It’s lost!”

“Rewrite it later,” he had replied. “It’ll probably sound better than it did initially.”

She had grumbled, mostly out of discomfort with the idea. But in the end, she agreed to take a break; she had been obsessing with the story for so long, maybe she did need a break. A break to collect herself, live life, learn a little, and then, when that time came, she could get back into the piece, into the writing, and hopefully finish it.

“In the meantime…”

In the meantime, she would put her novel away. She would not open the document for a while. She would hide it from her eyes and speak little of it. She could read and write other things but she would not read or write her novel for now. And she would wait; wait until, suddenly, inspiration and motivation came, and then she would launch herself into the writing.

But it would be hard—this she knew. It would be hard to do anything else, especially since she had spent the past several days working towards the end goal of writing her novel. Would she be abandoning all of her work, then? No, he had answered, you are taking a break for now. Temporarily.

Their conversation lost its vocal tones and transitioned into texts sent during dinner (much to Ink’s mom’s mild annoyance) and kept going well into the night. Sometimes it strayed, but for the most part it remained the same: supportive, reassuring, and firm on both sides.

When Ink finally did drift off to sleep, it was with a resolve to not be bothered by her lack of progress; and she dreamed, this time, not of able-bodied men and the stories of vixens entwined in emotional struggle, but of abstract, fleeting images that were nonetheless able to provide rest.

A dark Tuesday morning awoke her. The gloom of the sky drifted through her window and pervaded all around her room. So dark was the sky that she at first thought she had woken up far too early, but a cautionary glance to her clock revealed that it was the usual time. She groaned, then slipped out of bed, rubbing the grogginess from her eyes.

Mornings of this kind never were her type. Too dark to do anything productive, and too early to do anything either; yet she had to surge past the sleepiness and find some hidden strength to get through the first few hours. She wondered if anyone even enjoyed getting up this early, or ever got up any earlier.

A few minutes later, she emerged from her room and headed downstairs, where the gloom was no longer as gloomy and was beginning to drift into shining silver. A morning wind was beginning to drift just outside, and she could hear the rustling of leaves as the tree out front swayed in rhythm. She paused for a moment to listen. The shadow of her mom appeared on the steps, long and thin, and for a moment she watched it, filled with flashing dread and anticipation; then it turned and darted away.

There was a crash.

Ink ran into the kitchen, crying for her mom. She found her bent over the sink, and beside her was a pile of shattered dishes. A coffee mug lay spilled over into the sink. But Ink ignored the fallen items and instead moved to her mother’s side. “Mom! What’s happened?”

Her mom’s face was stricken with pain, but she managed a shaky grin. “I-I’m sorry, Ink. The dishes—they just slipped…”

She winced, one arm leaning on the counter. Ink saw blood. In an instant she dashed away for the bathroom, and came back with a roll of bandages. Against her mother’s soft protesting, she cleaned and then dressed the wound. “You have to be more careful, Mom,” Ink chided, pursing her lips once she was done.

She helped her mom stand, face covered with worry. “You’ve never dropped the dishes before,” Ink noted quietly.

Her mom nodded. “No, I haven’t. I suppose it’s just one of those days.”

“Did you take your medicine?”

“Not just yet.”

Ink took her mom over to the table and sat her down, where the woman opened her medicine case and pulled out her pills. She began taking them one at a time. Ink went into the kitchen to fix herself breakfast, but every so often she looked back over to her mom, making sure she didn’t fall again.

She came back with her food and sat down, eating slowly, keeping watch over her mom. But eventually her worry began to recede. They talked about what was going to happen today, as well as plans for Christmas—there were none so far, and Ink’s mom confessed that she hoped to stay home and enjoy the holiday season if she could. Ink agreed. They didn’t mind going to a part if they were invited, but in all honesty, they would have enjoyed a quiet, festive night.

Her mom asked about her story, and Ink confessed she was going to take a little break. “That’s good,” her mom said. “You don’t want to tire yourself out.”

A voice inside murmured obscene things, chastising her for giving up; she forced it away, reasoning that she wasn’t giving up, that she was just trying not to burn out again. The story will come, she assured herself, chewing on a piece of toast. She almost believed it. Then again, it was only Tuesday. Perhaps that assurance would be more believable during the week.

Momentarily, she became lost in those thoughts. Then her mom’s voice cut through them, drawing her back to the present. “Ink? Aren’t you going to be late?”

Ink glanced at the nearby clock, and then yelped. “Agh! You’re right! Crap, crap, crap!”

She gobbled down the rest of her toast, all thoughts of writing vanishing, replaced with a different kind of worry. She threw the plate into the sink, before rushing upstairs to get ready for the day. Moments later, she came back down, having hastily thrown on some clothing, brushed her teeth, and tended to her hair—breathlessly she came down, huffing and puffing. She gathered her belongings, put on her coat, and kissed her mom goodbye. “I’ll see you later!” she called as she darted out the door. She didn’t look back.

Ink’s mom watched her go, a bittersweet smile on her face. Then she closed the door and released a pent-up breath. Her fist clenched. She couldn’t believe she had dropped all those dishes. That wasn’t like her. Maybe…

No, it was nothing. There was nothing wrong. It was just a little mistake, a tiny error. Nothing more.

You should tell her, a voice said.

She shook her head and walked back into the dining room, that thought hounding her with ever step. It was better that she keep quiet. Ink shouldn’t have to worry. There were far more pressing matters on the girl’s mind, and her mom didn’t think it right to throw some hypothetical problem—one that she had yet to confirm—onto her shoulders. No, it was better this way; she was sure of it.

Just as she was about to clean up, though, the phone rang. She picked it up. “Hello?” she said into the speaker.

“Glory Quill?” came the cool, composed voice of the secretary.

“Speaking.”

“Could you come into the office today? The doctor wants to speak with you.”

“Oh. Um, okay. I’ll be there in a little bit.”

She hung up, caught off guard by the appointment. Her doctor never had been this sudden. Was something wrong?

No! she insisted, wringing her hands. It was probably just a follow-up to her last examination, nothing more. No need to worry.

Her eyes darted suddenly over to the picture frame that hung next to the china cabinet, one of herself, garbed in white, and a young man in a finely-pressed suit. Their smiles reached their eyes. There wasn’t a trace of worry in them. She found herself drawn to the man’s eyes, and there was a silent exchange between them.

Nothing is wrong, she said. But the picture was silent. The eyes were questioning, pleading.

After a moment, she looked away. If only she could believe those words.

Chapter Thirteen: The Tuesday of Turning

Tuesday morning had begun with a dark sky, full of thick, foreboding clouds that crept soundlessly across the horizon. A tearing wind was at their ends. When the hour of morning had passed, though, nature appeared to have eased up a bit. The darkness gave way to a silver dawn, with the clouds loosening up and becoming docile grey beasts that lingered overhead. The wind died into a soft murmur. The day was cold, but not freezing; it was the cold of late December, familiar and biting, but warm with the anticipation of the holidays. Would it snow? Maybe, but no one would mind.

Still, the sun refused to peek out, like it was afraid, like it was afraid. Across the northern hills, the clouds were much darker, glaring over them as a panther would at its prey. They had been pushed back for now, but in time they would return. Perhaps with a vengeance.

But weather was far from Ink Quill’s mind as she entered Canterlot High’s grounds. Wrapped snugly in her winter down jacket, she let out a shaky breath, once again reminded of how cold it was at this time of year. The cold had woken her up on the way here, but looking around, she saw that wasn’t quite the case with many others. Some students were wrapped in their own snug clothes so tightly that they appeared constricted, and their eyes were blinking slowly and dumbly, as if their brains were so tired that they could not register that they were surviving in sub-normal temperatures. Tuesdays were slow days during December, she supposed, so she could not fault the students for their sluggish movements.

Such observations had slowed her, but now she began walking again, heading for the school. Her mind lingered for a moment on the day to come. The first day spent without writing, the first day of her break as suggested by Artifex. Would it be a struggle to put those kinds of thoughts, those urges, away? She supposed a better question to ask would be if what she was doing—this break—would help her. Execution was key. But she could not help but feel doubtful.

She supposed (she was supposing a lot on this short walk) that maybe that was natural. Hesitancy was the mark of willingness. She would not dare risk not doing something if she didn’t feel compelled to do it. There was a level of caution here that reassured her of her decision, and with that thought, she put the worry away, and focused on the day ahead.

At present (and as luck would have it), her focus sharply veered off, landing on a strange sight.

He was leaning against a blue pickup truck whose paint had eroded long ago to the point where it no longer gleamed but whose rumbling strength could still be inferred. The back of the truck was full of crates, stacked against one another and fastened by ropes. Beneath the sandy cropping of hair was a red face and emerald eyes that glanced up at the sky, carefree and without a worry in the world. Nothing about him suggested being bothered by the cold. All he wore was a simple sweater and jeans, both of which seemed to struggle against his bulky frame.

His lips were moving, like he was talking, and all he glanced at was the silver sky above. To say it was strange was, perhaps, an understatement, but Ink could find no other word; or rather, she could find no inoffensive alternate to use, nor did she preferably want to.

Though one starting with the letter “q” did briefly entertain itself in her mind when she saw what he did next.

His gaze lowered, and he glanced around, as if making sure no one was watching. Ink felt a sudden urge to hide behind the nearby lamp post, whatever good that would do. Either way, he did not seem to have seen her. A puff of white smoke rose out of his mouth. He reached around and pulled something out of his pocket. It was some sort of magazine, whose title was plastered in big white letters across the front; but from distance, Ink couldn’t see exactly what it read. He seemed rather excited to read the paper product, as his neutral frown became a small grin.

So enwrapped in the scene was Ink that she did not hear the other girl creep up next to her.

“ ‘Creep?’ I do not creep!”

Ink screeched—then a hand clamped around her mouth and muffled her voice. The throng of tired students failed to notice. “Geez, girl, and they say I’m loud!”

Ink struggled to break free, but it was to no avail. The girl behind her might have been small, but her grip was ironclad. Wherever did she draw that strength? Was it a freakish talent? Did all Asian girls have this? (And more importantly, why was Ink even thinking these questions in the first place?)

“Ink. Ink! Baka! Quit squirming, would ya?”

“Mmph mph mmmph Gmph!”

“What was that?”

Ink repeated herself, even though she knew the girl wouldn’t understand. She found herself hoping for Hazel; if she were here, maybe then she’d be able to get free—

A startled gasp from the girl behind her finally released Ink. Stumbling forward, she coughed violently, before whirling around and fixating a killer glare. “Gaige!” she nearly shouted, voice containing barely restrained anger. “What the hell are you doing?”

“What am I doing?” A toothy grin crossed Gaige’s mouth; her eyebrows waggled. “What are you doing, Ink? Boy watching?”

“I—what? No! I was just standing here when all of a sudden you showed up and—”

Gaige’s laugh cut her off. “Yeah, right! You were totally scoping out Big Mac!”

Suddenly Ink felt her jacket was too much; the very air before her seemed to sizzle in the heat of her embarrassment. She pushed herself off the ground, crossing her arms, spluttering, “W-what? N-no! Of course I wasn’t—”

“You totally were! It’s so obvious! Oh my God, if Hazel was here, she’d be having a field day!”

“Gaige!”

Gaige’s laughter grew as the air around Ink began to fizzle. She was seeing red. No, wait, that was only Gaige. What difference does it make?

Another thought crossed her mind. She looked over her shoulder, at Big Mac, wondering if he had heard them. He hadn’t. He was still preoccupied with whatever he was reading.

“See?” Gaige exclaimed, pumping her fist.

Ink blushed even harder. She wanted to protest, or even to throttle the short girl in front of her; and yet, she found she could not. Somewhere, somehow, her voice had decided to abandon her, and all she could do was blush and try not to look behind her.

But Gaige was a perceptive person despite her short stature (“Hey! I resent that, Baka!), and she could see from a mile away Ink’s notable hesitance. She glanced between her and the boy all that distance behind her, and Ink could see the gears turning over in Gaige’s mind.

An uncharacteristically sly grin crept across Gaige’s face, freezing Ink solid in its intensity. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Ink,” she said. “Ol’ Gaige has got your back on this!”

Then she pushed past her, too quick and too suddenly for Ink to properly react. When she could move again, she immediately turned and tried to follow Gaige, but it was too late. The girl was already somehow in front of Mac. He looked up, surprised to see her. Ink broke into a run, intent on dragging the girl back before she did something they both would regret.

Gaige glanced back only once, and there on her face was a different kind of grin. Ink almost let out a breath of relief. It seemed she wasn’t about to do anything stupid. Her steps slowed as she approached the two.

“HEY, MAC! INK SAYS SHE WANTS TO HANG OUT ON FRIDAY NIGHT!”

In days to come, Ink would forever question the sanctity of her friendship with Gaige, if it had ever meant anything to the girl, if it was something she only wanted around as a toy.

At the moment, though, all she could do was freeze on the spot and become painfully aware of dozens of eyes turning to her, and the most piercing of them all was a pair of emerald ones.

Gaige faced her. She gave a nonchalant shrug, still grinning. “You’re welcome,” she whispered to Ink as she brushed past.

Then she was gone, leaving Ink and Mac at the center of everyone’s attention.

“I AM GOING TO KILL HER!”

“Ink—”

“I AM GOING TO GRAB HER BY HER PIGTAILS LIKE THEY’RE THE HANDLEBARS OF A BIKE AND SHOVE HER FACE INTO THE GROUND UNTIL SHE’S CRAPPING ASPHALT!”

“Ah… wait, can ya actually do that—”

“AND THEN I’M GONNA FEED HER TO HER STUPID ROBOT AND SHOVE CELINE DION MUSIC DOWN HER THROAT!”

“She don’t like Celine?”

“I DON’T FREAKING KNOW AND I DON’T FREAKING CARE! WHY ARE YOU SMILING?!”

Big Mac attempted to hide behind a hand, but she could still the faint outline of his grin. He glanced at her, before turning away. Somehow, despite his rosy exterior, she could see the remnants of a blush across his cheeks. “Ah’m not smiling,” he insisted, only to cut himself off by a rumbling chuckle.

They’d only been questioned a few times as they hastily made their escape from Mac’s truck to the school, but that was enough to jolt Ink’s nerves. Gaige had long since vanished somewhere behind the double glass doors, and Ink was determined to find her and bring her to justice. That, or kill her, though that was basically the same thing at this point. Mac had tagged along, though for what reason she didn’t know.

“Ink, wait.”

They stopped at the statue, with Ink breathing heavily, and Mac still appearing relatively calm and collected. “Ya don’t really mean that, do ya?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

She glared back at him. He didn’t flinch. “I am going to metaphorically exsanguinate her and then feed her entrails to her own corpse.”

“Least you said metaphorically,” Mac quipped. He put a hand over her shoulder, smiling. Oh, God, did that smile infuriate her; and yet she found her lips fighting to make the same gesture. “But Ah wouldn’t advise it all the same.”

“Yeah?” she grumbled. “Try and stop me.”

Then she was talking, with him in tow, and he did not say a word of protest, nor did she realize that his hand had slipped from her shoulder and was now, for better or for worse, stuck in her own palm.

The glass doors swung open, allowing them entrance. Gaige was, of course, nowhere to be found. First block had yet to start; the window for swift and terrible vengeance was still open. Ink stomped forward, intent on fulfilling that bloodthirsty oath—

Only to be stopped by the shrillest, fan-girlish shriek she had ever heard.

“OH MY GOSH YOU TWO LOOK SO CUTE!”

In more days to come, Ink would forever question why she had become friends with Hazel.

She brought a hand to her forehead, then whirled around and searched for the girl, growling, “Hazel, now is not the time—”

But she was cut off by only more squealing as the sweater-bound girl rose out (of the shadows, no less) and buried her hands in her cheeks. “Inky!” she cried, beaming. “I didn’t think you had it in you!”

“Had what in me?! Gah! Hazel—”

Her utteration faded into a desperate gasp as Hazel wrapped her arms around her and hugged her far too tightly. She squirmed and struggled while Hazel squeezed and continued to squeal. Big Mac, meanwhile, kept watch, an amused half-grin on his face.

A thought crossed her mind; could she topple that sort of massive tree? Kill it?

The thought left her just as another breath of air did.

“I am so proud of you,” Hazel was saying (truth be told, her voice sounded very far off, sort of like she was at the end of a tunnel. Ink thought she could see stars.). “It only took you a few weeks but here you are and—”

Suddenly she let go, allowing Ink to breathe. Once she had recovered, Ink looked at her friend, only to find her staring at Mac as if she was seeing him for the first time. “Hazel?” she prompted, all thoughts of anger receding into concern.

“That’s not Artifex,” Hazel murmured.

Ink slapped a hand to her forehead. She heard Mac utter a short chuckle. “No,” Ink said, “he isn’t. Maybe you should get your glasses checked.”

“But… I thought… you and he…”

“Hazel, didn’t I tell you? He’s got his eye on someone else.”

“Oh?” Mac intoned, getting her attention. “Someone’s tickled Arty’s fancy?”

She turned to answered him, but Hazel stopped her. “Ink, that’s Big Mac!”

“Yes—”

“As in, Applejack’s older brother!”

“Yes, but what does that have to do with—”

“You’re doing the horizontal hokey-pokey with Macintosh Apple!”

From somewhere far off, in another classroom, there sounded a strangled gasp, followed by one mighty cry: “Who’s doin’ wut with mah brother?”

Mac laughed. Ink screamed.

Chapter Fourteen: The Rite of Permission

Miss Raven had heard the commotion from all the way back in the house office, and had come out just to see for herself what it was all about. What she got was a full, free viewing of Applejack stomping after Ink, Ink shouting at Hazel, Hazel looking confused, and Big Macintosh standing to the side, smiling and blushing. It didn’t take a genius to piece together the pieces.

All it took to restore order was a brief and stern talking-to with the four of them, and at that point, Applejack’s indignation and Ink’s frustration had faded into begrudging pause. Hazel remained oblivious to the damage she’d caused, and Miss Raven felt sorry for her when she saw the two previous girls fix her with death looks; she was thankful that Hazel had not been looking their way when they had. Mac, on the other hand, had the decency to apologize on all of their behalf, though it was hardly necessary; Ink was sincere enough, and Applejack may have been prideful, but she knew when her boots were licked.

She sent them all off to class afterward, before rubbing the bridge of her nose. Her glasses fell by an inch. Somehow, shouting matches in the halls were more of a hassle than magical anomaly. No wonder Celestia was always trying to get her to take a day off; no sense in tiring yourself out over these natural things before the supernatural things occurred. Her boss had said the same thing with the Vice Principal, though unlike Raven, Luna was far more willing to listen (though “far” was a relative term, as in, more lenient to Celestia’s offer but not quite submissive towards it).

Her lips curled into a smile as she remembered that Luna had very recently decided to take up that offer of a day off, and how she had come to Raven in quite the panic over it. Vice Principals went out on dates seldom often; the poor girl hadn’t even gone to lunch with anyone since college. How fitting that now, this Friday, she would be heading off to dinner with the only available bachelor in the school who also happened to have been her first and only boyfriend from way back when—

Miss Raven shook her head. No point in overthinking it. Her day-off had yet to come, if it ever did convince her to take it, and there was much work to be done.

She headed back into the house office and closed the door.

Mac’s limp manifested shortly after the talking-to. He could not hide it. He walked with a slight limp, somewhat similar to Artifex’s, only this time he had no cane with which to assist himself. So he took (rather hesitantly) the second-best option: leaning on Ink as the two of them struggled their way to class.

It was at times like this when he was thankful none of his sisters were around to watch. Applejack… well, she had made her position quite clear only moments before. Apple Bloom? Chances were she’d think it adorable—or be confused and ask too many questions. There was no in-between.

He shuddered to imagine what Granny Smith might say if she caught the two of them like this.

“Sorry,” Ink was saying, drawing him out of his shudder. “About before, I mean. I didn’t mean to overreact.”

“ ‘S fine,” he insisted once again. “No harm done. Don’t let it worry yer sweet little head none, y’hear?”

She paused, only for a moment, and then they went on.

The girl was one to worry; that Mac had figured out on his own, and he also knew that his words would only give her more reason to worry. Thinking that brought a smile to his face that felt almost natural. She stammered apologies all the way to his class, the red of her cheeks making her lilac skin much darker. And he kept insisting that everything was fine, everything was okay.

Somehow he wasn’t annoyed too much by the apologies. In fact, he rather appreciated them and her. But of course he wouldn’t say that. The poor girl was flustered enough.

Mac blinked as he sat down at his chair. Strange. When had he begun to care for Ink? His shoulder felt strangely cold and alone, almost as if it had, in the short time he and she had spent together on the walk, grown used to her company.

He resolved to put the matter out of his head for now, and would revisit it at a later date.

He paused.

I said “yer sweet little head,” didn’t I?

Mac was thankful, then, that people tended not to stare at him.

By lunch time, Ink’s anger had returned, though it was far less explosive than before. A dry Home Economics class tended to do that to a person. But it was still potent enough that the image of a Gaige stricken down and chewing pavement was not altogether unappealing.

There were, however, other thoughts that took up just as much space in her head. They all fixated on Mac and what he had said, and they were as interesting as they were distracting. In those quiet moments between work and relaxation, her thoughts turned to those things, turning them over in her mind, as if examining each and every side, searching for some hidden clue. It struck her how simple what he had said was. They were plain words, spoken earnestly and honestly, so polished that they were almost flat, and yet there was a vibrant strength in them that promised some hidden agenda that was almost entirely in her favor.

She blinked as she thought this while walking down the hall. That was… awfully flowery of her to think, to be sure. ‘Twas the mind of a writer, she supposed, and she almost groaned.

She pushed those thoughts away as she approached the lunchroom. An image of Gaige laughing flashed by; she grinned devilishly. Oh, she was so going to enjoy this…

But just before she opened the cafeteria doors, a familiar voice called out to her.

She turned, surprised, to see Artifex walking towards her (or, rather, limping, but he was limping a little less painfully now, she noticed). Behind him trailed Adagio and… who was that other boy? Oh, right, No Clue, his other friend.

“There you are,” Artifex said as he approached. His hair was somewhat longer now, but just as white. “Judging by the angry look on your face, you remain bothered by what Gaige has said.”

“Is it really that obvious? And you heard?”

“Of course I heard. You were quite… expressive.” He came to a stop on his cane, tilting his head and offering a small, sympathetic smile.

“Applejack was also loud,” No Clue added. “I was at the far end of the hall and even I heard her. She didn’t threaten you, did she? I know she has a temper—”

“I’m fine,” Ink said, nodding her thanks. “We… talked it out.”

“In the company of Mac, of course.” Artifex’s eyes twinkled, and his grin widened a little.

She groaned. “Oh, don’t tell me you believe what Gaige said, too!”

She caught Artifex and Clue give each other sly looks; Adagio, however, remained silent. This was somewhat odd, as Ink expected the former villain to at least chime in once or twice. She seemed to have a fondness for the minor misfortunes of others that bordered sadistic in intent.

“I don’t believe anything,” Artifex said, in a tone that made it clear he enjoyed teasing her. Clue pointedly looked away and began whistling.

She crossed her arms. “You know, if it weren’t for that perfect jawline, I would have slapped you by now.”

He flinched, and she grinned. “See? I can play this game, too!” She did not notice the strange look cross Adagio’s face; she was too busy laughing at the blushing boy.

“Ah, all right. I’ll refrain from teasing you, then, Ink.”

“Yeah, you’d better.”

“Don’t kill Gaige just yet, okay? Or if you do, at least leave some for the rest of us to be irritated from.”

“I’ll call her ‘tool,’ a gift from you to her.”

“I’ll be grateful.”

He and Clue went ahead, but stopped when they realized Adagio hadn’t moved. “Dagi?” Artifex called. Ink wondered if he noticed how soft his voice suddenly became.

The ex-Siren gave one of her signature catty grins. “Oh? Suddenly worried about me, are you?”

“I could always ignore you,” Artifex steadily replied.

“True, but I know you won’t. I’m just too fascinating for you to brush aside.” She flicked her head, hair bobbing in place. “I’ll be fine, dear. I just want to have a little chat with Ink. That’s all.”

Artifex turned to Ink, studying her features; and she in turn studied his. Clear confusion shone through. “Well… all right. Don’t take too long, or else Sonata will take your seat again.”

“I’ll be quick. I promise.”

He nodded, before he and Clue went through the double doors.

Other students walked on by but they paid the pair little attention. Ink saw Sonata perk up at the sight of her sister, before wilting when she caught the distant, almost thoughtful look on her face. She glanced over at Ink, shrugged, before leaving her alone, and it was then that Ink decided she was in some manner of trouble.

With one hand beneath her chin, Adagio regarded her, eyes a little narrowed but grin still present.

“So. Macintosh Apple.”

Ink groaned, “God damn it, not you, too!”

There came her signature cackle that was both teasing and reminiscent of her villainous days. “It’s a fine catch, Ink. That’s all.”

“He’s.”

“Of course. He’s. My mistake.” Adagio flashed her teeth—they were stunningly white, Ink might have said—and winked. “How quick you were to correct me there, Ink.”

“Wh-what?”

Then Ink shook her head. “N-never mind that! If you’re just here to tease me, you’re just lucky I got all of my anger out this morning.”

“So I heard.”

Ink perked up. Adagio’s voice had become noticeably subdued, and she had to move in a little closer to hear it over the cafeteria’s throng.

“So.” Adagio paused; no, she hesitated. Adagio Dazzle never hesitated, as far as Ink knew. “That means you and Artifex—”

“Agh!” Ink buried her face in her hands. “Do people really believe that? We. Are. Not. A. Thing! Really! If that stupid Hazel hadn’t said anything—”

“Whoa, calm down,” Adagio said, putting both of her hands on Ink’s shoulders. “I never really believed that. I just wanted to make sure.”

“Make sure?” Ink raised her head and narrowed her eyes at the ex-Siren. “Why?”

The hands slipped away from her shoulders. Adagio was quiet. It was the kind of quiet that preceded something monumental, something earth-shattering (surely). And, if Ink wasn’t mistaken, she was blushing.

And it was then and there that Ink finally pieced it all together.

“You—”

“Yes, me—”

“—and him—”

“Well, not yet—”

Ink gasped (she was beginning to bear an unhealthy resemblance to Hazel in that regard). Then she developed her own catty grin that could have rivaled the girl before her, and she sneered happily, “I knew it!”

Try as she might, Adagio couldn’t hide her blush any longer. Ink railed tease upon tease on her (“Who’s the Tease Queen now, Adagio?”), and the girl retreated into her bumbling mess of hair.

Ink giggled. “Aw, this is so cute!” And she laughed and laughed as Adagio groaned and slinked back into her hair.

Eventually, both girls settled down. Now they were both smiling. “So…” Adagio attempted, only to have her voice falter.

Ink nodded. “Go for it, girl.”

Adagio nodded as well, but still appeared hesitant. “I can’t do it now. It’s… it’s too soon, and I haven’t thought of a way to—”

She doesn’t know. Ink paused, thinking. “You don’t have to do it now. Maybe wait a week or so.”

“A week or so?” A pause. “Actually, that could work out. We’ve a party coming up and… yes, that… that might work.”

Adagio nodded again. “Thank you, Ink.”

“Oh, um… no problem, Adagio. Um… good… luck?”

It was lame of her to say, for sure, but Adagio nonetheless smiled, and Ink had a vision then: a very sudden and lucid vision: a white dress and an aisle and standing off to the side of them, smiling proudly—then it was gone.

“You, too.”

Adagio’s reply was soft-spoken and gone the next minute, vanished behind the quickly closing cafeteria’s doors. Ink tried to follow it, but it was to no avail. She wondered what she meant.

“Oh, hey, Inky,” came the voice of Gaige, “what was that about handlebars?”

And all thoughts of Adagio promptly left, replaced with a scathing vengeance.

Chapter Fifteen: A Friday Night Surprise

So passed Ink’s week. Gaige survived, Ink did not get too angry anymore, and the day passed like rolling wind across a boundless countryside. All thoughts of writing had receded. But she was content with that, was living in the moment, and cherish the thought of returning to writing once she was right and proper.

She came home that day in semi-higher spirits. The evening was a bit cold but it was much brighter, for the sun had come out and was a stark contrast to the morning chill. Her mother was home. Ink said hi to her then went up to her room to do her homework. She did not notice her mother’s strained smile, but the latter did not think it best to follow-up on it. They were odd people like that, Ink would suppose later.

And the week continued to pass. Her anger gone, she found she could focus a little more on her studies, and while Gaige did occasionally tease her, it was rare in occasion and far too gentle to be anything but that. Ink’s anger had placated her, something that not even Flash could do, and so Ink enjoyed a small moment of pride in that little achievement. So the week continued to pass.

On Friday, Ink decided to treat herself to a night-in with her mom. It was dark and cold outside. She wanted to snuggle up in a blanket on the couch while sipping hot cocoa. Maybe she would read one of her old books, a classic or some other novel that lay on her bookshelf discarded but that she promised she would finish one day soon. Though, she had to admit, she was growing a bit bored anyway. Neither she nor her mother had eaten dinner. It was quiet in the home and Ink did not think anything would break it.

Of course, in thinking that, she invited the universe to shatter that evening: though in a way that she would never expect, and, of course, she had no way of knowing that the universe had it out to get her. So it was that her Friday passed and then it was evening and she was on the couch getting ready to snuggle and sip and do all that when the doorbell rang its definitive ding.

She got up. There was a frown across her face. As far as she knew, they were not expecting any packages or visitors.

“Ink?” her mom called from somewhere in the house. “Could you get that?”

“Sure thing, Mom,” Ink replied, shrugging her shoulders. She glanced out the window, but she could not see whoever or whatever might have rung the door. She checked the corner grandfather clock. It was a little past five. Why would anything be here at this hour?

She walked over to the door, wondering. When she opened the door, her eyes took a moment to adjust to the outside darkness, and so she did not immediately see who stood before her. Once she did, though, she realized it was someone she would never have expected.

“Big Mac?”

He was wearing something other than simple work clothes—and he looked uncomfortable. The suit he wore was the color of evening indigo on those rare days when the setting sun set the sky on fire, and he even had a matching cloth square stuck in the blazer’s front pocket; yet standing there, it was as if he had never worn a suit in his life, for he kept twitching and scratching his sides like he was beset by fire ants. He couldn’t even keep an even gaze with her and kept looking away and to the sides.

She was too set aback by what she saw to say anything, so he took the initiative. “Um, howdy, Ink.”

Still she was silent. Her mind slowly processed the image before her.

“Ah know it’s a bit late but Ah was wonderin’ if you’d still be willing to go out tonight.”

Go… out?

“What?” she asked.

He blinked. “Go out. Y’know, get dinner. Like you said all those days ago.”

I… did? Wait a second…

She gave Mac a fixed, deadly smile. “Could you… wait a few moments before I answer that? I need to make a call.”

“Sure thing, Ink.” Though, she did wonder if he was about to make a run for it, with how uncomfortable he appeared.

She closed the door and stepped a few feet away. Then she reached into her pocket, pulled out her phone, dialed a certain number, and waited.

“Oh, hey, Inky! What’s up?”

“Nothing much. It was supposed to be a quiet night.”

“Yeah, I getcha. You know, I was supposed to be relaxing and not be forced to be Jarvy’s metaphorical punching bag for several chapters, but, you know. Author’s whims and all that. When am I gonna appear in Ragga’s story, do you wonder?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, you and everyone else.”

“Listen, I was calling because something just came up and I think you might have an answer.”

“Can it wait? I’m busy fixing Deathtrap to sing the chorus to ‘Time To Say Goodbye’ but in Japanese.”

“No, it can’t wait.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“Gaige. Why did you send Macintosh Apple to my house at five in the evening, dressed in a nice suit and acting like we’re going on a dinner date?”

There was a long pause. Longer than Ink thought Gaige was capable of, longer than what should have been normal for the girl (if there ever was such a thing). She peeked a little out the front door’s window casing and saw that Big Mac was still there, standing idly by.

“What are you talking about?”

“You heard me. What is he doing here on my front porch?”

“You mean he’s actually there?”

“Of course he’s there. I can see him.” Even though Gaige wouldn’t see her do it (nor care if she had), Ink shook her head disapprovingly. “Honestly, Gaige, this is a little childish, even for you. I mean, come on. Sure you made that comment the other day, but following through with it? Now the joke’s become reality, and no one likes it when jokes become that.”

There was another lengthy pause. Ink counted a good thirty seconds before Gaige even seemed to take a breath. “Ink, I need you to listen to me very carefully.”

“I’ve got you on the phone, haven’t I?”

“I mean it, okay? This is serious.”

“Okay, okay, fine. I’m listening.”

“Ink. I didn’t send him.”

Now it was Ink’s turn to pause. Then she offered a dry chuckle. “Okay, Gaige. Sure you didn’t.”

“Ink, really. I didn’t.” Gaige’s voice, through the garbled static of the receiver, had dipped in tone. It had lost its feistiness (“I can still hear you, Jarvy!”) and now had dropped to a much more serious level. “I swear on Treble’s life.”

“Um—”

“Oh, all right. I swear on Moxxi’s life.”

“You swear on your mother’s life?”

“Never mind the details. Point is, Ink, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you sure it’s him?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Same skin and build and everything.”

“You know his build?”

Ink blushed. “W-well—I mean—yes?”

She heard Gaige hum. “Well, all right then. I don’t think—well, Hazel doesn’t have the balls to do that. Or to do anything, for that matter. But then again she’s a girl so—”

“Gaige, get to the point.”

“Well, it should be obvious, Ink! Big Mac’s there on his own! He wants to ask you out to a dinner date! Glad I could clear that up. Let me know how it goes. Later!”

“Wha—no! Gaige—” But it was too late; her friend had already hung up, and would not answer no matter how many times Ink tried to redial. “Goddamn it!”

“Ink? Why are you cursing?” her mother called.

She blanched. “N-no reason, sorry! I just was—”

“That didn’t sound like no reason. Who’s at the door? I heard you talking to someone.”

“I was talking to Gaige on the phone, but she’s not here.

"Then who was it?”

“It’s complicated…”

She heard her mother coming up, and she braced herself for the oncoming questions. But not once did she turn away from the door.

In truth, none of this had been Big Mac’s idea.

He had been the first to brush aside the whole matter, but Applejack hadn’t. Somehow the girl, despite her general good-natured attitude, decided then and there that a grudge was going to be borne, and that it would be held against Ink until the very end of time. Even after Mac had explained that it was not Ink who had said anything, but Gaige and Hazel, Applejack refused to budge.

She was protective, he knew, but that only added to his quiet annoyance.

It was the first thing she had brought up at dinner that night, without any prompting from any of the other Apples. “Ah’m telling ya, no girl ain’t gonna get with mah brother without mah approval,” she said as Granny was in the kitchen.

Apple Bloom, who had been sitting politely in her seat, raised an eyebrow. “Um… what’s wrong with Ink Quill?”

“Nothin’s wrong with her, sugarcube,” Applejack said. “But as the older sister it’s mah responsibility to make sure Mac doesn’t get some plumpin’ hizzy as his girl.”

“Ah’m right here,” he intoned, glaring at Applejack (not that she would have faltered under his gaze).

“Then ya get it,” Applejack said. “Mac, Ah don’t wanta see a repeat of yer freshmen year. Can ya blame me for wantin’ ta be cautious?”

No, he could not. A memory sparked. A painful memory. Lit aflame by the tinders of the present and now burning brightly in his mind’s eye. The painting of pain that stood there. That hung there, unforgettable.

He shook his head. Applejack’s anger subsided. “Ah’m sorry, Mac. Ah just… Ah don’t want t’see you get hurt, y’know?”

“Eeyup.”

That was when Granny had come back. “What’s all the hubbub about?”

Before either Mac or Applejack could respond, Apple Bloom piped up, “Applejack won’t let Big Mac take out a girl on a date.”

Granny nearly dropped her casserole dish. “You what?!”

She stomped over to Applejack. It looked like she was burning up, and Applejack was sweating under the pressure. “Girlie, since when were you put in charge of whether or not my boy can or cannot give a girl a good time?! That’s my job!”

“G-Granny—”

“Don’t you Granny me, Applejack!” she shrilled. “You ain’t the older female in this household, I’ll have you know!”

Then she stomped over to Big Mac, and laid into his chest a bony finger. “So! Who’s this girl you’ve been wantin’ to take to town?”

Mac blinked. He’d never heard Granny speak so many euphemisms before. Was she feeling all right? “A-actually, it’s a… um… bit more complicated than that…”

“A name! Spit out a name, boy!”

He winced. “Uh… Ink Quill?”

“Y’sure that’s her name?”

“Eeyup!”

“Then why’d you phrase it like a question! Mac, you gotta be assertive! Show me that Apple gumption that only our family has!”

She stomped away, stuck in her own world. “Oh, but this is wonderful! Maybe Ah’ll have grandchildren with the last name Apple finally!”

“Granny!” Mac shouted. “Ah’m in high school!”

“But you’ll soon be in college and then you’ll be off to grad and then in the working world and have a wife and kids!” She said all this in one breath, without once gasping or coughing. It was as if she had been injected with an invisible serum of vitality in that very moment. She would not be contained, no siree; not by her grandson and granddaughters!

“And it’s so nice to see you back in the dating game!” Granny continued from wherever she had stomped off to. “After that nasty business with that Sugar girl, I mean…” Then she was gone, and only Applejack and Apple Bloom noticed the flash of pain across Big Mac’s face.

“Eeyup…”

That led to today. Granny had somehow drudged up a decent suit from someplace in the old farmhouse—by chance, it was exactly Mac’s size. There were no ifs or buts that could suppress her sudden and boundless enthusiasm. Somehow she had become enthralled with the idea of a high school sweetheart (on Big Mac’s behalf, of course), and now was working every string in existence to forge that dream of grandchildren together (much to all of her grandchildren’s embarrassment, no less). She had given him the pocket square, some instructions on how to walk and stand, some money, and even a script to memorize, which he had read to Ink just now and which he knew sounded very artificial. And to top it all off, she had called in a favor from an old friend to get free reservations to a certain restaurant in the city. She was convinced this was Mac’s time to shine.

If only his grandmother could see him now, standing out in the cold, in a suit, waiting for this girl he didn’t exactly know very well to either flip him off or scream at him or worse. He had heard her conversation with Gaige through the door—she wasn’t exactly quiet about it—and had winced; he could see why she might think this was all a joke, and, honestly, he was beginning to wonder if that was what the universe was setting it up to be.

He remembered Granny’s and Applejack’s glares, one for each end of the dating spectrum: one of determined approval, and the other of determined disapproval. He shivered. How could he combat either of those things? No wonder he somehow ended up here on Ink’s porch; there was no way he could have said no.

Maybe I should leave… Though, the only problem with that was that doing so would be incredibly rude. And if there was something Mac did not want to be, it was rude.

So he stood there, rooted in place, the wind whispering incessantly in his ear.

“There’s a boy?!”

“Mom! Not so loud! He can hear you!”

“Well, let him in, Ink. He’s probably freezing out there.”

“That’s besides the point! This has got to be some kind of joke; there’s no way Mac’s here asking me out on a Friday night!”

“And why’s that, dear?”

Ink opened her mouth to respond, then stopped. Her mother regarded her with a frown. “And it would be impolite to not at least let him inside to dry, even if you don’t end up going out with him. Besides, I’d like to meet this boy.”

“Mom, wait—”

She ignored Ink and stepped past her, opening the door and revealing the shivering form of Big Mac. She gestured him inside and closed the door. “Here, take a seat on the sofa, make yourself comfortable and warm up. I’ll get you something warm to drink.”

“Uh, y’don’t have t’do that—”

She was already gone. Now it was just Mac and Ink standing in the foyer, neither willing to look at the either. Mac eventually walked over to the sofa and sat down right next to where Ink had been sitting. The girl followed, but sat down on the opposite sofa, and still would not look at the boy.

Her mother came back and handed Mac a cup of cocoa, before sitting down next to Ink. “So. You want to go out with my daughter?” she said, hands clasped together in her lap.

Mac started, then nodded. “Eeyup.”

“And what do you intend to do tonight?” her mother grilled.

“Jus’ dinner. Ma’am,” he added.

“And where do you intend to dine?”

Mac told her, and even Ink had to bite back a gasp. That was a highly prestigious restaurant; getting any reservations there was normally a hassle. “How’d you get those?” she let herself ask, for the first time showing any interest.

He regarded her, surprised, before managing a small grin. “A few tricks,” he simply said.

Figures. She felt her lips curl up.

As her mother continued to grill the boy like a well-seasoned veteran of the art of dating, Ink found herself taking in his appearance. Despite his clear uncomfortableness with the suit, she had to admit: he looked damn good in it. His frame filled the garment easily. The sleeves were nice and straight, and he even knew that the dress shirt underneath should stick out a little from the jacket’s sleeves. Whoever had dressed him—himself or someone else, not that it mattered—knew what they were doing, and they knew the importance of physical presentation. And the way the whole attire hugged his chest and made his work-muscles stand out—

Ink caught herself with a gasp. Both people turned to her. She blushed. “S-sorry,” she said.

He looks really good…

After a few more minutes of talking, her mother clapped her hands. “Well. Thank you very much for talking with me, Mr. Macintosh.”

“Please, ma’am, call me Big Mac. Everyone does.”

“Very well, Big Mac. Could you wait here a few moments longer? I’d like to speak with my daughter…”

Before either of the kids could protest, Ink’s mother had taken her by the hand and was dragging her away into the hallway, far away from where Mac could hear them. Ink could feel Mac’s questioning gaze settle on her back, before it turned away. She herself was beset by all sorts of questions, none of which her mother appeared willing to answer.

“So?” her mother said. “What do you think?”

“What do you mean? It’s still weird.”

“So it’s not as much of a joke anymore, is it? I saw you looking him over, you know. Good-looking young man, isn’t he?”

Ink’s blush returned full-force. “Y-you—I mean—”

“Come on, Ink! I was a young girl once. I know what it’s like to look over the boy toys. And if I had had a boy who looked like the one downstairs come up and ask me out on a Friday night delight—”

“Ew, Mom!”

Her mom giggled. “All right, I’ll cut the teasing. But you know what you have to do now, though, right?”

“What?”

“You have to give him an answer.”

“What? Mom, wait—”

“Ink.” Her mother placed her hands on her shoulders. She was smiling, proudly even. “He’s a nice boy. I can tell. He definitely would treat you right.”

“You’re beginning to sound like Hazel…”

“Your shipping-obsessed friend? Maybe she knows what she’s talking about, Ink.”

“Mom, it’s just Mac. He’s no… knight in shining armor.”

Her mom pursed her lips. “Maybe not. But I can tell he’s someone different.”

“Aw, Mom. You’re beginning to sound cheesy.”

“A cheesy truth is still the truth, is it not?”

Her mom stepped away. She was still smiling. “As much as I appreciate you wanting to spend the night with me, Ink… I don’t want to hold you back.”

“Hold me back? Mom, what are you talking about?”

Her mom did not seem to have heard her. “You’re young, girl. You’ve got the whole world in front of you. It would be a shame if you blinked and missed it.”

“Mom…”

Her mom fell silent, then, as if caught up in her thoughts, remembering some untold past or present. The wind rattled once, twice, upon the walls of the home; then, it all fell silent, waiting.

“He’s asking you very nicely. And you don’t have any other plans for tonight—I know you don’t.”

Ink shook her head, “Mom, I don’t know if… well, I just don’t know. I’m… I’m just surprised by all this. It has to be a joke. It has to be.”

“And if it isn’t?”

Ink could offer no answer.

“Just think about it for a some time, Ink. Either way, you’ll have to give him an answer before the night is up.”

And then she was gone, gone to wherever she had gone, to leave Ink alone, confused and not the slightest bit happy with what was going on. She fumed for several moments, before putting her hands on her hips and thinking deeply.

She looked down the hall, where, if she leaned just right, she could see the wheat-colored tufts of Big Mac’s hair. He was sitting there, as patient as forever. He seemed perfectly willing to wait for just as long, too. She felt herself smiling. Just a little smile, that was all.

And she found herself wondering. Just wondering.

I suppose…

The night grew long, and it was then that Ink finally came to her answer.

Chapter Sixteen: A Date With Destiny

The Cobalt Crescent was no ordinary restaurant. Erected out of solid, onyx marble and accentuated by cyan light bars, it stood out from the more homely restaurants that Canterlot had to offer. Rumors about it abounded, thanks in no small part to the prestigious patrons that often showed up at its front door. Actors, journalists, detectives, and politicians were among the most notable, and several names always jumped out: Songbird Serenade, Sapphire Shores, even the illustrious Fleur de Lis, the mysterious woman who was always beside Mr. Fancy Pants at every occasion and from whom even more rumors sprouted.

The Crescent, as it turned out, was the hub for many of Canterlot’s prospects. Those in the arts, in government, in public works, they all showed up at its door at some point, though that point was, in large part, only made at a certain pay grade. A. K. Yearling was thought to sometimes show herself, but nothing substantial could be generated to support that. So it was that other authors sometimes showed, including the illusive author known commonly as Prose.

Not that either of the two teens who stood in front of the building knew any of this, of course. This sort of knowledge was privy to a select few elite, shared seldom, returned rarely. This was an establishment well above a teenage date, so to say the pair was intimidated was a severe understatement. Ink and Mac gaped at it. The very building exuded societal pressure that no amount of positive reinforcement in Health class could ever barricade against. It did not help that the armed guards who stood watch in front fixated them with uncompromising, unforgiving glares.

Ink gulped. Maybe this was a mistake. She hid a little behind Mac, though he, despite his big frame, seemed just as intent on bolting just as much as she was. At least we’ll go out together, she thought, imagining the guards getting startled and firing off a few rounds into them.

On the bright side, Canterlot was not one for lack of excitement—that was for sure.

The dress-skirt combo that Ink had decided to wear was a sleeveless mix of deep violet and light turquoise, so she had opted to wear a thick winter jacket; but even that was not enough to prevent her from shivering. It had begun to snow some minutes before, and she was missing the warmth of Big Mac’s truck. But as much as she wanted to head on inside, where surely it was much warmer, she did not know if they would be allowed so much as a step onto the property.

Mac was frowning. He took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly, a surprisingly affectionate gesture that made her blush and momentarily feel warm. Then he walked forward, and she followed.

The first guard glared at them from behind shaded glasses. He held up a hand, then reached around and pulled out a clipboard. “Name,” he gruffly said. Ink noted that his other hand rested comfortably on his gun, and she shivered again.

“Macintosh Apple.” Mac might have had a deep voice, but somehow it seemed meeker than ever before.

“Reservation ticket?”

Mac fumbled around his jacket, before finally procuring the item after several tense seconds. He gave it to the guard. The guard took it and looked it over front-to-back. Ink held her breath.

Then the guard nodded and tore the ticket up. “You may proceed. Have a good night, you two.”

The doors swung open, and they were through.

The sophistication rammed itself the moment they were there, literally—Mac swerved to the side and Ink ducked as a white-apron-wearing waiter carted a rolling shelf of lobsters and other delicacies over their heads, through the doors, and out into the December night. Ink could smell the fried calamari threading the air mixed with the smell of roasting meat, perfectly cooked and now being served. There was the clattering of dishes from the kitchen, somewhere farther off in the restaurant, and from that same place rose the garbled and foreign cries of belligerent and eccentric chefs and cooks alike.

Every seat was full— at least, it seemed that way. All wore the latest in fashion and the sleekest in attire that put the pair to deep shame. Voices carried like tufts of glittering laughter, light and poignant at the same time, the essential paradox that came with fame and fortune. As they stood at the front, awkwardly side-by-side, Ink knew: they really did not belong here.

A waiter came up to them: a young man, clean-shaven, lean and lanky. He offered a brilliant smile that was definitely the product of much grooming. “Table for two?” he inquired.

Mac wordlessly nodded, for he, too, was made speechless by the surroundings. The waiter nodded. “Follow me, then, mister and missus.”

They were led through a maze-like series of floors and seats and tables, all of which were filled with either workers or patrons, none of whom paid them any heed and acted as though they weren’t there. In a way, Ink was grateful; at least this way none would be the wiser to her growing embarrassment. Glasses clinked, plates were gingerly cleared, and conversations ebbed and flowed between them like the waters of a functioning society made of the little snippets of life that oh-so defined a human existence. It was glitz and glamour galore, and Ink, the young girl from a school of magical beings, had never felt like such a stranger in such a foreign land.

But Mac was still there, leading her by the hand, and she found his presence—its simplicity—comforting.

Their table was in a row lit by a series of ornate, ceiling chandeliers that could easily have passed as castle decoration. Paintings from a bygone era, still relevant today, covered the surrounding walls, meshes of bright and dark hues. They were seated in the finest chairs, so soft it was like sitting on air, and given utensils and napkins far fancier than the ones you would find at a home goods store, and it was then that Ink remembered something: how much was all this going to cost? Would she be in debt before graduating high school?

She cast a look at Mac. He was sweating. Perhaps he was wondering the same thing. Mentally she went over what she had in her purse; she doubted it could cover a quarter of the price.

Once seated, they were given two menus by the waiter, who rambled off quickly the night’s specials: none of them sparked an interest in Ink, for she did not understand half of what the words meant, but she tried to be polite and asked about the ingredients and half-listened to the responses. She hoped that the food would be good, whatever it was. The waiter asked for drinks. They both ordered water. He wrote it down then left them.

“Mac,” Ink said.

“Ah know,” he grumbled. “Ah didn’t choose this joint. Granny Smith did.”

“Granny Smith? The cafeteria lady? How’d she manage that?”

“Somethin’ ‘bout a favor. Ah’ve got no idea, Ink.”

Ink sighed. “Well, we might as well try to enjoy ourselves… at least until the bill comes.”

He chuckled, but it was brief.

The waiter came back some minutes later with their water, then asked for an appetizer. Mac and Ink exchanged glances, looked over the menus once again, then decided on a simple combination. The waiter nodded, wrote it all down, and walked away. They were alone for the moment once more.

“At least it’s a nice restaurant,” Ink commented.

“Eeyup.”

Too bad they both sucked at small talk. All of a sudden both found the ceiling, floor, and walls more interesting than the person right in front of them.

Ink’s phone buzzed. She checked it. It was Gaige: “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” she replied shortly, then put the phone away. Uncomfortable though she was, it would be rude to have it out during dinner.

Mac took a sip of his water. Ink tapped her fork against the table. Both wished for something to happen.

“So… how’s yer book going?” Mac suddenly asked.

Ink blinked at him, then gasped. “Oh! Uh, well… it’s not exactly going anywhere at the moment.”

He raised an eyebrow, letting her continue. “You see, I’m… sorta taking a break from writing it.”

“A break?”

“Yeah. I guess I kinda got burned out. Needed to just let it sit for a while, let the ideas accumulate on their own.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well… Ah hope you get back to writing it soon. Ah’m sure it was really good.”

“Thank you.”

Another silence. So much for that realm of conversation. She tried to pick it up again with a different topic: “How’s your leg? Healing okay?”

“Eeyup.”

She realized there wasn’t much left to say about that, and immediately fell silent.

Ink’s eyes wandered all around. She was tempted to start whistling some nameless tune, though knowing the clatter around them, she doubted she’d be able to hear herself. As her eyes traveled across the entirety of the restaurant, they came to rest on a table some distance away from them, where two people were being led. She watched them sit down.

That’s odd. They actually look really familiar.

They were dressed smartly. The woman wore a slinky black dress that clung to her figure and made all the right points stand out, and the man wore a vest and white undershirt combination finished off by a red tie. The woman was blushing; the man was, too. But they were both smiling, and their eyes had yet to leave the other’s.

Ink still couldn’t place the familiarity.

The waiter came back with the appetizers, and with it, a request for their orders. Mac ordered some sort of burger, but a Prench variant of it whose pronunciation he probably butchered. Ink, after a moment’s consideration, asked for an evening salad. Their menus were taken away afterwards.

Ink leaned a little over the table. “Mac, look at that couple over there. Is it just me, or do they look familiar?”

Mac offered a cautionary glance that way, then grunted. “Well, they sure do, Ink. Though Ah’m not sure why.”

Now they were both looking at the pair, who were talking quietly amongst themselves, enjoying a pleasant evening conversation. The man told a quick joke. The woman giggled; the word that came to mind to describe that giggle was royal. As Mac went back to his appetizer, Ink continued to watch.

And then, as the waiter returned with their food in hand, Ink suddenly sat straight up. “AH!”

The waiter raised an eyebrow. “Miss, are you all right?”

“U-u-uh, y-yeah! Yeah, sorry, just… I just remembered something.” Ink giggled sheepishly.

The waiter remained impassive. He placed the food down in front of them. “Please enjoy your meal,” he said, and then once again vanished into the throng of the restaurant.

Ink cast a quick look at the couple; they hadn’t heard her. They were too busy caught up with themselves, their moment together.

“Ink,” Mac intoned, not touching his food. “What was that all about?” He took a sip of water.

“I know why they look familiar!” she whispered back fiercely. “That’s Vice Principal Luna and Mr. Solil!”

“What?!” Mac choked, water spewing from his mouth back onto the table. Ink brought her hands up to protect herself. “Uh, sorry. Yer serious?”

“Yeah! Look over there!”

He did, taking a few moments to study the couple. She could see the gears of his brain working. His eyes widened. “Eeyup, that does look like ‘em.”

“Are they here on a date, do you think?”

“Ah reckon so. Didn’t know either would be into that, though.”

“Yeah. I always thought that they were too into their work.” Ink giggled. “That is so cute! Look at them, all lovey-dovey and giggling and everything!”

“Eeyup.” Mac faced her and was grinning. “Sorta the kind of material ya’d need in a book, huh?”

“Yeah! Oh my gosh, I’m so gonna tease Mr. Solil over this the next time I see him. Do you think they’ve been dating for long?”

“Hard to tell—”

And that was how their night really began: not with talk of commonalities or trivial things, but of gossip, intrigue, and fascination towards two authority figures. To say it was unorthodox was an understatement. It was anything but ordinary; but then again, was anything ever in Ink’s world?

The night drew on with a bated breath and the restaurant continued to run even as the moon rose far above their heads and the stars came out and the clouds rolled away leaving behind the heavenly glow of the eternal. Outside streamed stroves of people always refilling the ones who left like some human conveyor belt. The noises never ceased and the restaurant remained busy well into the deep night. The rest of the city mirrored this, for the lights were all on and the streets were cast in colorful hues and cars petered out into the horizon and snow was kicked up and the music of the holidays was playing. Everything was in good cheer.

The food had been eaten and complemented, though that was to really no one’s surprise. The dishes had just been cleared by the impassive waiter and now Ink and Mac were left waiting for the check. At another time they would have been worrying over it, but now they were preoccupied with the realization that Ink’s teacher and their Vice Principal were dating. Dating! As if co-workers dating was some rare oddity, though, Ink supposed, that it was; she had heard neither hide nor hair of either of the sister principals ever engaging in the dating game, nor with someone as charismatic and reserved as Mr. Solil.

She recalled vaguely that the pair had been seen at the Fall Hallows’ Eve Event all those months ago, but that had been told to her by Artifex, who had mentioned it offhandedly as if it didn’t matter; and up until now she had believed the same. So what had changed?

Perhaps it was the fact that the pair were now holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes, and it was so lovey-dovey and cliche and everything straight out of your typical romance novel—but Ink ate it up. And Mac was there beside her, perhaps not as loud, but just as enthusiastic, and together they gossiped and wondered and spread rumors between themselves, all in the company of their teacher and vice principal who would never hear the end of it if Ink had anything to say about that.

In that moment, she paused. I’m beginning to sound a lot like Hazel. And she found herself not quite hating the comparison, even as Mac teased her about it.

The check came, and at once their conversation evaporated. The waiter handed it to Mac, who took it slowly and held it out in front of him like bringing it any closer would immediately render him dead. Ink reached for her purse, anticipating being short anyway—but it was the thought that counted, right? And if they were to be in debt, at least they would be in debt together…

She did not let that thought stay much longer, banishing it from her mind with a flush of red embarrassment being the only sign it was ever there.

Mac was staring at the piece of paper. His jaw worked silent words. His face was unreadable. Ink took a sip of her water and watched him for a few seconds.

“Mac?” she asked. “Um… is there something wrong with the check? If it’s too much, well…”

Wordlessly, he passed it over for her to look.

She did, and was confused. Right where the total should have been typed was instead, in big, black lettering: PAID IN FULL. She blinked, then read it again. Then again. When she was sure she wasn’t seeing things, she looked back up at Mac. “Is… Is this for real?”

“Did you two enjoy your evening?”

Both of the teenagers jumped at the sudden voice. Next to their table was a—well, out of politeness, Ink would have called him an “older, stout man.” Indeed, he was vertically challenged but horizontally sound, and his silver-lined head was covered by a black bowler hat. A fat mustache masked his lips. His eyes were twinkling.

“Oh! Um, yes,” Ink managed to say, “we did, very much, thank you.”

“Eeyup,” Mac added.

“You were looking over the check, though, weren’t you? You are confused by it, yes?”

“A little,” Ink admitted.

The man turned to Mac, a big smile on his face. “Well, son. I’m sure you were excited by the prospect of having to pay a hefty fee for a four-hour dinner service.” Mac gulped. “But, a favor’s a favor, and I ain’t one to forget when I owe one, especially to your grandmother.”

“Y’know Granny Smith?”

The man let out a bellowing laugh. “‘Course I know her! That girl could give my family a run for their money when it came to pie-baking back in the day. She saved my behind a few years back from a money laundering scheme against me, and I’ve owed her a favor ever since. Well, until today, that is.”

“S-so you paid it all off?” Ink said.

“Right you are, little lady! And don’t you worry; I was glad to!”

“How much would it have cost if you hadn’t?”

He told her, and they both nearly fainted then and there. The man continued to laugh.

After many reassurances that they would not need to pay the man back (and many were needed, even as Ink imagined her purse being empty for a long while), they got their belongings and began to leave. “Tell your grandma Ol’ Santiago says hi!” the man called after them. Mac promised he would.

As they were leaving, though, Ink turned at just the right angle to see Mr. Solil and Vice Principal Luna again. Both turned to face her out of instinct; as Luna stared at her in confusion, Mr. Solil ducked behind his coat. Ink caught a deep shade of red coming out of his dark cheeks.

“Oh… hello, Ink,” Luna said quietly. “You came here, too?”

“Uh huh.”

“With Big Mac?”

“Eeyup.”

“I see… I hope you two had a good evening.” She was smiling, even as her cheeks flushed. Ink thought she heard Mr. Solil murmur the same thing, though it was hard to tell.

“Thank you.” She paused and looked between the two. A reckless thought overtook her, and she smiled. “You two make a cute couple!”

Mr. Solil groaned, and Luna offered an uncharacteristically girly giggle, and then Ink and Mac walked away.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Mac said as they neared the doors; but she could hear in his voice he also found it deeply amusing.

“Ah, whatever. Mr. Solil can give me extra homework for it. But they were a cute couple, don’t you think?”

“Eeyup.”

It was spitting snowflakes when they came outside. Ink put on her hat and coat and so did Mac. They kept close to each other as they made their way to Mac’s truck. He helped her inside (“Thank you,” she called), then stepped in to the driver’s seat, started the vehicle, and drove off.

Mac turned on the heat, but Ink found she didn’t need it. She felt warm already.

“As far as dinners go, that wasn’t half-bad,” she said, hoping to fill the silence.

“Much appreciated,” Mac responded kindly. “Though, to be fair, Ah don’t think Ah wanna go back there. Least not until Ah actually have the money for it.”

Ink laughed. “I’m with you there, Mac.”

A moment passed, and then Ink’s face burned red. Did I just say I’d go on another dinner date with him? She cast a look in his direction, but he was too busy driving for her to see if that same thought had occurred to him.

“Ah hope you had a good time,” Mac said as he rounded the corner, the truck bustling and bumping along the road. “Sorry it was so sudden.”

“I did,” Ink said. “But that just makes me wonder: why tonight?”

“Well, fer one, ya did say you wanted to go out on Friday.”

“I didn’t say that. Gaige did.”

There was a pause. “Oh.”

Ink began to giggle. “Oh, you poor boy. Did you really believe that girl? You know she’s eccentric.”

“N-now hold on fer a goshdarn second, there—”

“Are you telling me that you wouldn’t have asked me out to dinner if Gaige hadn’t said anything?” she teased.

They came to a red light. Mac hit the brakes just a tad bit too hard, and Ink knew that her teasing had found its mark. She giggled again and again as Mac turned redder and redder.

“Ah’m not gonna answer that,” Mac said.

Ink felt a sudden flash of disappointment. She masked it with a sigh. “All right. I’ll stop bothering you about it. The dinner was nice, Mac. Really.”

The light turned green. Off they were. Though Mac was still blushing fiercely, he was now smiling as well. And Ink felt herself doing the same.

When they reached Ink’s house, the snow had started to slow and now the world was a combination of dark and whiteness. Mac helped Ink out of the truck and together they began to trudge up to the porch, their boots pillowed by the velvety snow beneath them. Mac held her hand and she did not think once about letting go at all.

The lights were still on inside. Ink’s mom had set up a wind chime some time ago and in the brewing nightly gale that crested the frozen landscape it began to chime softly through the air and into their ears like a maiden’s beckoning call from a faraway land.

They stepped onto the porch. Mac touched Ink’s shoulders, then moved away. When she turned to face him, he had his hands in his pockets, his hood down and blonde hair swaying gently in the snowy breeze, unaffected by the cold. He opened his mouth to say something, then apparently thought better of it, closing his mouth and letting the wind be his cry.

Ink stared at him. She saw the green of his eyes and how they, in the low amber glow that came from the home, were like emerald pools of deep thinking. She found herself wondering if beneath those pools were the vestiges of this boy’s great quietness and gentleness such that she in all honesty had never seen before. They were pretty eyes, she decided; or maybe a better word was enchanting.

They were now both silent. Both waiting. Both unsure of what to say, of what to do, how to proceed with the rest of the night before they retired.

Slowly, Ink smiled. “Thank you for the night, Big Mac,” she said.

He nodded. “Of course, Ink. Ah’m mighty glad you enjoyed it.”

Still that silence prevailed again and it hung over their heads like a heavy cloud of tension. There was a push from behind Ink: invisible, from nowhere, from nothing, and yet it made her step closer to Mac. Because she was on the porch, she was now at even head-level with the farm boy. Her breath came out quick and shallow, just as did his.

Mistress Opportunity reached out a hand to push them towards Fate’s plan…

Only for Ink to push the hand away.

“I’ll see you Monday,” she said, trying for a smile. It didn’t feel right. It felt lacking.

But Mac returned it anyway, and seeing its gentleness made Ink’s heart twist up.

“You will,” he said. “Good night, Ink.”

He began walking away, whistling a tune as he did so—a Christmas song, how fitting. She watched him go, watched even as he got into his truck and drove off into the forever night. Then she, too, turned in for the evening, and entered the warmth of her home once more.

The wind chime sung of longing.

Chapter Seventeen: The Days After

“Well.”

“Well what?”

“Well, this is a surprise.”

“Artifex, come on. I’m not a mind reader. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Look at yourself, Ink. Or rather, don’t, because I wouldn’t want to interrupt your work.”

“Which you’re doing by talking, by the way.”

“You seem rather animated today.”

“Is that the surprise?”

“Part of it, anyway. You’ve filled up three pages in the midst of this conversation and you haven’t even touched your coffee yet.”

Ink blinked at her friend. “That’s surprising?”

The boy with cerulean eyes nodded, offering a tiny grin. “In a way. It was just a few days ago that you were complaining that you couldn’t write anything, and yet here you are, bustling away, pen to paper, scribbling and scuffing up the pages as if your life depended on it!”

“I have to get this idea down before I lose it,” she mumbled, writing a few more sentences. “Wouldn’t you understand that better than anyone?”

“Of course.” Artifex sipped his own coffee, his hair flicking itself back. It was getting long. He had commented how he was going to get it cut tomorrow on Sunday, back to its usual length—something that, Ink thought to herself, Adagio would probably like very much.

“I suppose my question,” he continued, “is what happened between then and now?”

She paused her writing to think of an answer. The bustling sound of Sugarcube Corner’s Saturday breakfast rushed filled their ears, the register chiming at regular intervals. The Cakes and Pinkie came in and out of the kitchen and counter, carrying plates of food and receipts for many a satisfied customer. Ink saw at some point Pinkie managing to carry the Cake twins on her shoulders while she passed a dozen muffins to Ditzy, and she even caught Artifex smiling at the sight. That was something she hadn’t known about him until now; he had a soft spot for the kids.

“Nothing happened,” she said, but knew she was lying, and so did he.

“Nothing? Is that so.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “A whole lot of nothing was happening all those days ago, too, and nothing is what precisely happened. Are you telling me this is a different kind of nothing?”

“Maybe it is.” She flipped a page in her journal, having filled up the rest, and placed the pen’s tip at the top. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“Not at all. It’s good to see you in a far more productive mood.”

She offered a smile at that. “Yes, and I am grateful for it.”

He still wouldn’t turn away. His smile carried a mischievous glint to it that she found herself comparing to the one Adagio constantly wore. “So? How was it?”

“How was what?” She grabbed her coffee and sipped it.

“How was dinner with Big Mac?”

She did not spit out the drink; she had far too much practice with that and now was experienced enough to never have it happen again. Instead, she held the drink in her mouth for a solid ten seconds, then slowly put down her cup and swallowed.

When she could talk again, her voice came out low and threatening: “Who told?”

“Gaige. Not sure why she told me but she did.”

“And Hazel?”

“She doesn’t know. Yet. Gaige’ll probably tell her on Monday.”

“Great.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I should have figured she’d have told someone. Girl like that can’t keep her girlfriends’ secrets.”

“And you have to keep hers because she has a giant floating death machine in her home. Go figure.”

“We live in a crazy world.”

“A world of supernatural forces beyond mortal control, with a school full of magic-powered girls with a portal to another universe and is now home to four ex-supervillains, with a future beset by magical anomalies at every corner. Crazy doesn’t begin to describe it.”

Artifex tilted his head. “Crazy also doesn’t begin to describe your night out, I would imagine.”

“You’re right. It was far from that. Thank God.”

“I wouldn’t have expected Mac to be anything but gentle. He’s a nice guy.”

“I know.”

“So? How was the dinner?”

She could feel herself beginning to blush. “It was… nice.”

“Just nice, huh? Come on.” He winked. “Gaige is gonna ask you the same things on Monday, if not sooner, so you might as well practice on me.”

She sighed. “That’s true. All right. It was more than nice. It was more than I had ever imagined it could be. And I’m not even sure what it was, really. A dinner, a night out, or even—” She paused, considering her next words carefully. “—a date; I’m not sure if it falls straightly into one of those categories.”

“Could it not fall into all three?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure how I would feel about that.”

“Well, you liked it, didn’t you? Does it need to be any more complicated than that?”

“I don’t know, Artifex. It just… It confuses me and I don’t know why.”

He was quiet. He leaned back into the seat, crossing his arms over each other. She returned to writing, and although her thoughts were distracted, managed to come up with some coherent paragraphs. Later on she would type them up on her computer. Maybe she would end up using them. Maybe she wouldn’t. At the very least, she had material; more material than she had begun with, anyway, and that, she figured, would be worth the trouble.

“Would you…” He licked his lips. Paused. Began again: “Would you… be opposed to doing that sort of thing again?”

She looked at him, and only had to think for a moment. “No, I don’t think so.” He found the answer satisfying; she found it to be honest.

As Pinkie made her way past and cheerfully called out to them before ducking back into the kitchen, Ink decided to flip the situation around. “What about you? Would you be opposed to going out on for dinner with a certain girl?”

His glare was temporary, and did not mask his fleeting panic. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Artifex. Maybe one day you’ll convince the both of us it’s true.”

There was another period of silence, in which Artifex stared at her intensely. She detected the silent question on his lips. She finished her drink. “And it really wasn’t anything, Artifex. Just a friendly outing.”

By Sunday, she still hadn’t convinced herself of that. In truth, it was all she could think about—well, besides writing, of course. After her meeting with Artifex yesterday, she had spent the rest of that Saturday filling out her notebook until she was sure she had a good idea going. The only breaks taken were for homework and to help around the house, which she could have sworn was happening a lot more frequently, but which was also something she was sure not to complain about.

On that Sunday she had finished writing and now was slowly beginning to transcribe her ideas onto her laptop. She made sure she made backups of the documents to avoid another mechanical mishap. The little blinking light in the corner of her laptop that told her it was on and operational was a blessing, but she could not help but view it with some unease ever since that incident.

But her mind was elsewhere. She copied the words she had written onto the flickering screen unconsciously while her mind tossed and turned with all that had happened. When she had finished her transcribing, she wasn’t even aware of it. She stared at the screen blankly for a moment, before turning her head and looking outside. The snow had stopped but it was as white as ever, and she found herself thinking back on that night, on the spitting snow and the boy in the nice tux who had come for her out of nowhere…

How clearly that night came to her. How plainly, how simply. Few nights—few things—were like that.

“Ink?” then her mother called. “Could you help me with something real quick?”

“Sure thing, Mom.”

Ink powered down her laptop and got out of her seat. As she made her way out of her room, she cast another look out the window, and found her thoughts straying once again…

Elsewhere, so were his.

His hands trembled beneath the heavy crate he was moving into the house. It was full of the Christmas decorations and lights his family had been putting up for generations, the plastic ends and tips just barely peeking out of the cardboard lid. His feet crunched on frozen snow before landing on the wooden porch with a soft thud. He grunted. At his grunt, the door swung open, and he entered.

“Golly, that sure looks heavy, Big Mac,” Apple Bloom said to him as he entered, closing the door behind him.

He didn’t provide an “Eeyup.” Didn’t provide much of anything, anyway, beyond the sounds of exertion as he placed the box on the ground.

“Mac? You all right?”

Still nothing. He raised his head a little and saw in his view the kitchen window where from there led a path to the road which would take him to her house. Somehow he had memorized the route easily, without meaning to, without actually consciously wanting to. He wondered how she was.

“Mac?” Apple Bloom asked again. She placed a hand on his shoulder.

He started, then stood. “Er, y-yeah, Apple Bloom,” he said.

“You’re thinking of Ink, aint’cha?” she said, smiling up at him.

He glared at her, then sighed. “A little,” he admitted. He blushed as Apple Bloom squealed, and yet his blush was not as intense as one might have thought. Almost as if he was growing comfortable in its existence.

That night had been on his mind for the entire weekend, truth be told. It did not help that Granny hounded him with questions when she could fire them. Applejack, on the other hand, seemed deadfast on ignoring him. Girl had a grudge against Ink, though Mac had no idea why. Apple Bloom was the only one who was giving him any semblance of peace, though that came with the teasing just as much as it came with the consoling.

In the living room, the radio was playing some old Christmas music. As Mac and Bloom worked to set up the lights, he found himself listening to what was playing there. …

And so he wondered, oddly and uncharacteristically whimsical of him, if together their tracks through the snow had been visible.

They finished setting up the lights a quarter of an hour later. Three songs had played, but after the first one Mac hardly noticed. He attempted to busy himself in the physical work, but really was busy in the mind for the most part. Apple Bloom laughed at him, but only for a short while, before returning to the task at hand—together they finished and stepped back to admire their handiwork.

The windows had been decorated with lights while stockings hung from the fireplace. Banners and holiday-themed photos adorned the walls. They had even set up a little place for cookies and milk to reside, even though none of the Apples believed in Santa Claus anymore. All that was missing was a tree, which Mac would get later on in the week before Christmas finally came.

Apple Bloom went away, then; Mac registered her softly saying goodbye before dashing off. Now he was looking at the family photo and thinking—thinking of nothing at all, he wanted to admit.

“She’s still on yer mind?”

He didn’t turn, knowing already who was standing behind him, and yet his voice carried a surprising edge to it. “Ya got a problem with that?”

“What if I do?”

“Then don’t you bring me into it, y’hear?”

She grumbled incomprehensibly. He would not turn and face her.

He heard her take a step forward and say, “So how was it?”

“Ah told you, it was nice—”

“That’s what you told Granny, but that ain’t what yer face is saying, big guy.”

He whirled around, all the bravado and ire a big brother could muster gathering on his face. “And what’s my face sayin’, then?”

She put a finger against his chest. He noted that her eyes had gone soft, and she was frowning. “Don’t bother lying, Mac. Ah can spot one a mile away. You like her a lot—don’t you?”

He glared at her. It was silent. Then he took his hand and brushed hers away and stepped around and away from her. “We’re just friends, Applejack. Nothin’ more. Now, if you’d excuse me, I’ve got some more work to do.”

He was gone before Applejack had a chance to retort. She shook her head. “Oh, Mac… fer yer sake Ah hope it all ends up all right.”

Chapter Eighteen: Heart In Flight

Here is a simple truth: the heart cannot help for whom it yearns.

It matters not one’s age, nor status, nor occupation, nor association, nor characterization. Above all things does this rise and it does so with triumph and glory. Much like all of the best and good things—the truly best and good things—in life, it is simultaneously the most questioned and most given item beholden to that of man, and for it do we solemnly provide nothing short of both contempt and curiosity.

For here is a simple, irrevocable truth: the heart cannot help for whom it yearns.

It is a shame, then, that most owners of hearts are pigheaded fools who cannot see the forest for the trees.

Ink had read that somewhere. She didn’t know from where. She was sure it was a book, or some sort of passage, but she had forgotten the author and the exact topic that it was discussing.

She had remembered this text only suddenly and it came when she had awoken in the odd and dark dawn of December, on that Monday, the 22nd. It was like the last fleeting memory of a dream she had been having but whose images and content she did not remember, holding onto her very soul desperately so as not to be lost beneath conscious thought. But try as it might, it lasted only until after breakfast; afterwards and then, it was gone, replaced with the dullness that accompanied those kinds of Mondays and those kinds of December dawns that few enjoyed and even fewer tolerated.

She leaned back and ran her hands through her hair as she sat at her desk trying to work. She knew she was distracted, and yet, strangely, she didn’t mind. A breathy sigh escaped her as she stared down at the words on the screen. There were plenty of them; she had made a huge amount of progress in the last several days. Most of it was just her retyping up her notes she had made in previous days, but a story was beginning to come together. She allowed herself a satisfied smirk; perhaps she had a future after all. It might be a little bit arrogant to think that before finishing her writing, but there was nothing more empowering than the quiet confidence coming from a strong belief that what was being written would soon be worth reading.

If only she could develop that same confidence for her characters; then everything would be falling into place. Characterization. That still seemed to be the biggest hurdle she had to leap over. Yet despite this, strangely enough, she felt detached from the whole thing.

It was not as though she hated the piece, or found it disgusting; no, she enjoyed what she was doing, that was for sure. She just didn’t… well, the best analogy she could come up with was the weeks after Gaige and Flash officially became and item and Hazel finally began shutting up about her perfect ship. (Did that mean Ink had been shipping her piece so hard? Then again, it was a romance story, so perhaps that came with the territory.)

She read over what she had written, then, and, satisfied with them, hit the SAVE function. Then she leaned back and crossed her arms, checking the clock. It was still a little early. She would not need to leave just yet.

So she sat there, looking at her computer screen, eyes running over the words written there, and wondering where she could go next. How best to create the characters who would trounce about her little world? How best to make them come to life, react to the life she had given them, and push the them together until they were, fluidly and gracefully, together as a couple?

In the past she might have obsessed over that detail, but this time, she didn’t. Instead, she shrugged. All would be well in time, she supposed. You could not rush art. You had to trust that what you were writing would develop on its own and would reveal to you its inner secrets—all in due time, of course.

With that, she powered down, closed the screen, got out of her seat, and prepared to head off for school.

They bumped into each other right outside of the school gate, a mirror-event of what had happened on Friday.

“Morning, Big Mac,” Ink said.

“Morning, Ink.” He was a bit red-faced, breath coming out white. “It’s a might bit colder than usual, don’tcha think?”

“A might bit,” she agreed. “But that’s perfect for the holidays.”

“Eeyup.”

They walked through the gate together, then into the school together, and then down the hallway still together. They talked about their plans for the holidays. Mac elaborated on what would be happening in Sweet Apple Acres: a bunch of other Apple relatives would be coming over to join in for the festivities. Even more surprising, a bunch of Pears would be showing up, who, according to the muscular farm boy, had been estranged from the family for quite some time.

“Really?” Ink raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like quite the story.”

“Eeyup.” He had nodded, smiling, but it hadn’t quite reached his eyes. She guessed it was a sensitive topic, and was fine with not questioning it any further. Perhaps, when he was more comfortable, he’d let her know just what had happened.

“What about you?” he then asked. “What are your plans?”

“I don’t think I even have any,” she said. “As far as I know, Mom and I are going to stay home. It’ll be a quiet evening, I think.”

“Not going out with Artifex?”

“We’re not dating.”

“Ah meant to Treble’s holiday party,” he said with a slight smirk.

“Oh. No, I don’t think so. That’s his friend group and, well, I didn’t get an invitation.”

“Oh. That’s a darn shame. I’m sure they’d love to have ya.”

“Yeah…” Her voice trailed, and her thoughts derailed. What does he mean by that?

“Not that I’m mad or anything,” Ink continued. “But I guess I would prefer to do something more… exciting. I do like staying home and watching Christmas specials on the telly with my mom and all, but I guess I feel like I should be doing something more. Y’know?”

“Ah think so.”

They paused in the middle of the hallway, in unison, though neither noticed this strange connection. Students walked past them, giving them odd stares and whispering amongst themselves. At one point, Artifex walked on by. He gave Ink a perplexed look, turned to Mac, gave him the same look, looked back at Ink, and then he smiled and shook his head before limping on forward. All throughout, the boy beside her appeared pensive, staring down at the floor as if he was trying to solve a puzzle that was found in its dotted patterns.

“Y’know,” Mac began slowly, “if you’re really bored, there might be somethin’ you could do other than just stay home.”

Was it Ink’s imagination, or was he blushing?

“Yeah?” she said. “What’s that?”

“Well…” His baritone voice gave way to silence for a moment. He rubbed the back of his neck, shrugging his shoulders, as if resigning himself to what would thus be said. “Not that I’m pushing you or anything, but why don’t you come down to Sweet Apple Acres? You and your mom?”

She regarded him, confused at first. “Really? You want me to come down to your home?”

He nodded. “Shucks, Ink, I’ve already been down to yours. Wouldn’t be too strange for you to come to mine, especially on such a nice holiday.”

“That’s a good point.”

“Plus, Applejack’ll be at that party o’ Treble’s. So you won’t have to deal with her tryin’ ta kill ya or anything.”

“That’s an even better point,” she said with a light giggle.

Then she said, “Isn’t this a bit sudden? Wouldn’t your relatives mind?”

“Doubt it. We’re a pretty big family already. What’s one more number to the mix?”

“Really? You really think that high of me?”

“Course I do, Ink. Yer a nice and sweet gal, and I wouldn’t mind having you over for Christmastime.”

“Aw, thank you, Big Mac. Tell you what.” She pulled out her phone. “Give me your number, I’ll give you mine, and I’ll let you know what I think in a few days. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds good to me, Ink,” he replied, taking out his phone as well.

They exchanged numbers readily, and as they finished, Mac glanced up at the clock. “Aw, shoot. I gotta get going, Ink, else I’ll be late to my first class.”

“Oh, okay. That’s fine. I should get going, too.”

“So… later then?”

“Yeah. See you—and text you—later.”

He smiled at her, nodded, and then turned and walked off. She stared after him, the phone still out. She didn’t notice the smile that had creeped across her face.

Maybe this year’s Christmas wouldn’t be a bust after all.

The bell rang, signaling the end of first class. Conversations began up again, and the loudest came from Rainbow, who, alongside Artifex Frost, was busy hyping up Treble’s upcoming Christmas Special. Those who were interested tagged along, much to the icy-haired boy’s chagrin and the athlete’s excitement, and those who weren’t turned down another path. Perhaps they were turned off by the idea that another rich kid was holding yet another party in yet another mansion. Or perhaps they simply had better things to do.

Ink was about to do a mix of both—follow Rainbow and Artifex for a little while before turning off to her second class—when Mr. Solil called her up to his desk. At once, memories of Friday’s dinner danced across her mind, and while she tried to maintain a calm smile, inwardly she was in a panic.

I mean, I know I said to Mac that Mr. Solil might give me some extra work over this, but that doesn’t mean I’m looking forward to it!

Mr. Solil laced his fingertips together, his periwinkle eyes gazing at her. She could not read what lay past them, whether he was curious or cordial or customarily candid.

“Miss Ink.”

Ink gulped. His tone made it clear that he was not in a joking mood, and she replied as respectfully as she could, “Yes, Mr. Solil?”

“We saw each other recently, didn’t we?”

“Yes, sir. At the Cobalt Crescent .”

“Yes, that is correct. What did you think of the place? And answer me honestly.”

She paused. Searching his eyes, she didn’t find a trace of condescension. She relaxed a little, and took a risk: “To be honest, it was… a bit too much for me.”

He nodded, still not revealing his emotions. “I imagined so. It is a highly prestigious place. And you were with…?”

“Big Macintosh, sir.”

“Applejack’s older brother. A fine young man.”

Not knowing what to say, Ink nodded.

Mr. Solil was quiet. He stared up at her, as if waiting for a proper answer. With the knowledge that the clock was continually ticking down and the fact that she could not leave without his approval, Ink grew uncomfortable. Finally, she broke and asked, “Did you and Miss Luna have a good time?”

He didn’t respond, didn’t even react. Ink knew, then, that she was dead.

“Getting inspiration for your little romance novel, are you?”

She sputtered; then she nearly broke when she saw a smile across her teacher’s face. It was the kind of smile that came right as one was trying to stifle a bit of laughter. Thank God! He’s not gonna kill me!

“N-not, really, sir,” she stuttered. “I was just… he invited me and…”

He held up a hand. “Relax, Ink. I’m not going to grill you too hard. It’s not my place, nor is it my function as your teacher.”

“Then why did you call me up?”

“Consider that payback for Friday night.” She sputtered again, in indignation and embarrassment. He leaned back into his chair, sighing—she noted—quite happily. “Yes, I did have a good time. Vice Principal Luna is an incredible woman.” He paused, then winked at her. “The exact details I shan’t reveal, for they are between myself and her. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. For what it’s worth, you and Mac made a cute couple, too.”

She squeaked, and this time he finally did explode in laughter. “Ha! Well, I suppose this counts as double payback.”

“Gee, thanks, Mr. Solil…”

“Oh, don’t pout. You tease me, I tease you twice as much. It’s in the student-teacher handbook, believe me.”

He wrote her a quick pass. “Hand that to your teacher if you do end up late.”

She took the paper and pocketed it, thanked him, then made her way to the door, still blushing. But then she stopped. Her curiosity demanded to be satiated.

“Mr. Solil?” she called over her shoulder. “You like her, don’t you?”

He regarded her carefully, but she saw there was a familiar twinkle in his eye. “I do, Ink,” he said. “I like her very much. Run along, now.”

“Yes, sir.” She closed the door behind her.

“You WHAT?!”

Ink had expected a whole lot more from Hazel the moment she sat down at lunch. Two words of exclamation? Not even remotely close to Hazel’s average.

“Hazel, are you feeling okay?” Ink asked as calmly as she could. “Usually you’d be more… talkative.”

“Of course I’m not okay!” the girl shrieked, and Ink was thankful that the cafeteria was so loud that nobody could hear her. “My best girlfriend goes out on a date with a hunky dork and she doesn’t tell me until next week starts?”

“One: Big Mac’s no dork. And two: it wasn’t a date, it was a friendly outing, and I didn’t think you needed to know.”

“Besides,” Gaige popped in, “she didn’t tell you. I told you. So it’s not her fault, it’s mine.”

“Way to take responsibility, Gaige.”

“That’s besides the point!” Hazel was pulling at her hair. “Ink, you’ve got just as much charisma and luck as a shattered-mirrored black cat who looks like walking roadkill!”

“Hey! I take offense to that!”

But Hazel went on, “So how the hell did you manage to score with the hunkiest boy-toy in all of Canterlot High?!”

Ink blushed furiously. “I didn’t score anything—for Christ’s sake, Hazel, keep it down! I don’t want Applejack to kill me!”

“Agh! This ruins my ship so much! Here I was, totally thinking you and Gaige were gonna hit it off and you go off and be as straight as spaghetti! … wait, but spaghetti is straight until it’s wet… so there’s still a chance—Mmph!”

She had “mmph’d” because Gaige had conveniently decided that now was a good time to jump in and silence her, a hand placed over her mouth. “Yeah, no, there’s been enough fanservice, Hazel,” she said sunnily, “so we might as well wait a few chapters and give the readers a break.”

“Thanks, Gaige,” Ink said.

“Oh, don’t thank me yet. I’m gonna tease the hell out of you.”

“I figured you would.”

Ink looked back over at Hazel, who was struggling behind Gaige’s surprisingly iron grip. The girl had probably forced herself to contain her excitement since second block. Ink couldn’t really understand (since it totally wasn’t a date, no siree bob, of course not) the ferver; after all, Gaige hadn’t said anything about her date (not that Ink was saying she had been on a date on Friday), and whose fault was that? Plus, she didn’t recall it being Hazel’s business to know when Ink had been on a supposed date or not. Ships be damned, let the sailors swim to shore, for all she cared.

She blinked. That was somewhat poetic, actually.

“So!” Gaige said. “You’ve been out once with him. Any plans for doing it again?”

Knowing that lying would get her nowhere, Ink swallowed her pride and said, “Well, I wouldn’t be opposed to it. It’s like I told Artifex. It was very nice. Mac was very nice. So it’s not like there’d be anything wrong in having another outing.”

“And of course, it would be good if it were soon, right?”

Teases. Teases everywhere. It was like Adagio had come and infected Ink’s friends with that teasing smile. She wondered what Artifex saw in it.

“Well, yeah,” she said. “I mean, he invited me over to his house for Christmas—”

A poor choice of words, for once she had uttered them, Hazel somehow drew up an unholy amount of strength and broke free of Gaige’s grasp. “HE DID WHAT?!”

“... invited me over to his house for Christmas?”

“ALREADY?!”

“... yes?”

Hazel opened her mouth—probably to scream—but then stopped. Her eyes glazed over, and she fainted then and there into Gaige’s lap.

Gaige pushed her off. “Geez. Good going, Ink. Ya killed her.”

“Not my fault.”

“So, Christmas, huh? I swear this sounds like a crappy birthday gift.”

“Huh? Your birthday’s on Christmas?”

“Christmas Eve.” Gaige shook her head. “But never mind that. Point is, Big Mac just invited you over to his home for the holiday season, after your first date together.”

“It wasn’t a date!”

“Okay, your first dinner together.”

“Somehow that doesn’t make it sound any better.”

“What, was it supposed to? Anyway, doesn’t it sound odd that he would go and do that?”

“Now that you mention it, I guess it’s a little weird. But is it so strange of an idea that he’s doing it out of just kindness?”

“Nah. He’s too much of a softie not to be. But, still.” At this, Gaige’s eyes lost their usual fierceness. “Isn’t it a bit too fast?”

“What do you mean?”

“Ink, trust me. It took me forever to get with Flash. Like, twenty chapters and a lot of dragging. But he didn’t invite me over to his house after the first time we went out, you know. And most guys don’t do that. Not unless they’re—”

“Mac isn’t like other guys,” Ink insisted, a little too quickly. She crossed her arms. “So don’t you dare imply what I think you’re implying.”

“All right, all right. I take it back. And you’re right. Mac isn’t like other guys. He’s a lot quieter, much more gentle. Maybe I am being a little harsh on him, but can you blame me?”

“Huh?”

Gaige reached out and touched Ink’s shoulder. She was smiling, but only a little. “Ink, you’re my friend. You may be a stupid baka sometimes, but you’re still someone I care about. And I don’t want you to get hurt by some stupid boy, Mac or otherwise.”

Hearing this, Ink couldn’t help but smile back. “Thanks, Gaige.”

Their conversation turned to other things, and it wasn’t long before they settled back on Ink’s primary concern: her book. With burgundy eyes flashing, she took out her laptop and powered it on, before opening the document and showing it to Gaige. The pig-tailed girl let out an impressed whistle.

“Damn, that’s a lot of words. Way to go, Ink!”

Under her praise, Ink couldn’t help but blush. “Oh, thanks, Gaige. It is a lot. It’s like a faucet suddenly opened and all of a sudden there’s all these great ideas pouring in.”

“Sure seems like it.” Gaige reached over and scrolled down. “Oh, hey, looks like you’ve taken my advice on character to heart. That’s good—huh?”

“Hmm? Something wrong?”

There must have been, for Gaige’s mouth flopped open as her eyes scanned the words typed on the screen. She must have read it a dozen of times, double that even, and the longer she read the more confused Ink became. “Gaige? Hello? … did I somehow break you, too?”

Then Gaige snapped her mouth shut and turned to Ink with a terrifying grin. “Ink,” she called in a voice far lighter than normal, “you’ve really taken my advice to heart, haven’t you?”

“... yes?”

“Pfft, weak. You can’t even be bothered to deny it?”

“Deny what?”

“Dude, look!”

Gaige grabbed Ink’s hand and put it on the screen, right over where some text had been highlight. She read aloud: “Muscular build? Sandy-blond hair? The scent of sweat and farm work just as prominent as the lavender shampoo he had used this morning? Ink, all you need is a couple more colorful words and I’d say you’d be ripping from the real model!”

“W-what?” Ink stared at what was written. She wrote that? All of that? But it all sounded so…

“It sounds like you think there’s more to you and Big Mac than what meets the eye!” Gaige exclaimed triumphantly.

Her cackling could not be contained, and it was loud enough to rouse Haze from her dormant state. Ink’s blush was likewise unrestrained. She couldn’t believe it. She hadn’t even meant to be writing about Big Mac: she’d been trying to come up with an idea of a male deuteragonist and this was what showed up!

But then who was she trying to convince: Gaige? Or herself?

And yet, even as she protested and wailed to no avail, as a hand fell to her chest in indignation and supreme embarrassment, she felt her heartbeat; it was beating echoing drums in the chambers of her soul; and it excited her. Far more than she thought it would.

Now Ink sat on her bed. It was late at night and she was still up even after her mother had gone to bed hours ago. All she had on was her reading lamp and the neon-blue illumination of her phone screen.

She was staring at a particular number—Big Mac’s number. They hadn’t texted all that much. The only messages there were ones of greeting.

She had come home that day and had immediately decided to talk to her mom about what Mac had offered. She’d expected hesitance at the very least. But that had not been the case. Ink’s mom had simply said she would go along with whatever Ink wanted. A free reign over the holidays was being given to her. “Either way,” Ink’s mom had said, “we’ll be spending the holiday with people we love.”

Love.

A shame that that word, the sole theme of all that she had been writing, now caused her to wince. Every time she thought of it, somehow, someway, her thoughts strayed to Mac. Not enough for a clear picture, and, really, the thoughts were passing and brief, but just enough to warrant pause.

Love?

Ink shook her head. No, she was just being silly. There was nothing more to what had happened.

But what had happened?

There were two answers, of course, but Ink wasn’t willing to provide them just yet.

Nonetheless, she stared down at her phone, at the messages there, and wondered. There was a silent question hanging there that neither had written but both had definitely seen and read and were now thinking about even as the night passed into day. All it would take was one word. Just one.

Yes?

No?

A moment passed. Then another. Then suddenly enough had passed and Ink, in tired taps of her fingers, gave her answer.

Chapter Nineteen: Eve - Part I

Monday had been the last day of school. The rest of the week— and the rest of the month— would be devoted solely to Winter Break, an affair that everyone was thankful for. As crowds of students took to the streets to head home or elsewhere for the holiday festivities and as Christmas music ran out from seemingly every nook and cranny, it began to snow. Roads and driveways and bushes and trees were soon blanketed by the snow. Snowmen magically appeared on lawns. Trees came up and in and were decorated. Lights now hung from every home and all about was a wintry wonderland filled with festive mirth.

By the morning of the 24th, the snow had stopped and the streets and driveways had been plowed. But the snow still blanketed the lawns. It was the richest color of white that people had seen in years, and perhaps that was a sign of good things to come.

Morning gave way to evening. The stars came out. Bronze streetlamps awoke and did their work. It was now time for Christmas, now time for celebration. And as one group of friends left their Canterlot neighborhood to join others at a certain mansion for a party none would forget, another group, far smaller but just as close, left and went the other way.

“Whoa!”

“Sorry, Mrs. Quill. These roads are a might bit slippery.”

“Oh, don’t worry too much about me, Macintosh. You should be more concerned with your side passenger over there.”

“How ya holding up, Ink?”

“Uh… I’m good, Mac.”

Strange. All throughout this little trip to Mac’s house, and all that her mom had been doing was make Mac more concerned about her daughter than herself. She could understand a bit of where her mother was coming from— it was in her soul to worry— but still, it just felt odd. Not that it was wrong for Mac to ask if she was okay, even if she felt it was largely unwarranted.

The road had indeed been cleared of snow, but ice was beginning to gather where the snow had melted from friction before freezing over as the night wore on. Wet sludge accompanied this, and so it was that on these back roads Mac had to drive much more slowly and cautiously. The wipers were at their quickest and the heat was blasting from the air ducts. The radio had been turned on but had been kept low so as to not distract the boy. And it was so dark that even with the lights turned all the way up, Ink couldn’t see more than several feet in front of her.

“You sure you know where you’re going, Mac?” Ink asked.

He pressed a little on the gas as they came up a hill, then slowed once they were going down it. “Sure do, Ink. I know these roads like the back of my hand. Don’t you worry none.” He flashed her a grin, one that she returned.

Her decision to accompany Mac had come as no surprise to her mother. Somehow, she had assumed that they would be going out, having already brought out her coat by the time Ink had broken the news, and in fact she seemed downright excited to be spending Christmas at some other place than their home. Perhaps she, too had grown tired of that habit. A little change here and there wouldn’t hurt, right?

With that in mind, Ink had texted Mac, and he had arrived at her home in the darkness of evening. His truck brought a warm smile to Ink’s face, though she couldn’t understand exactly why; maybe because it was familiar? He’d come out and, after some small talk and plenty of “thank you’s” and “you’re welcomes,” had helped the two of them into the car. Ink’s mom had been strangely insistent that Ink sit up front with the boy.

If the boy had thought it strange, though, he didn’t say anything, so Ink had decided not to press the matter any further. And now here they were, driving along a wet and cold route to hopefully someplace warm and inviting.

“We’re close, right?” Ink asked.

“Eeyup.” He nodded his head. “Right over yonder.”

Ink looked over yonder, and was treated to a spectacular sight.

She had seen the Big Apple, had seen Rockefeller Center, the big tree that was there every year that was bigger every year after, but this?

This somehow—honestly, earnestly, perfectly—showed it up in every way. (“Suck it, Artifex!” she couldn’t help but whisper, though Mac gave her a confused look for a moment.)

She knew they grew apples at Sweet Apple Acres and that in the winter they basically closed up and waited for warmer weather to arrive. But she had not imagined that they would change the cold and barren orchard patches into a blinking, glowing garden of lights and ornaments. As they came over the last hill and the road leveled off into a soft plateau, they passed that garden and saw all of the reds and greens and yellows drift past lazily, hanging from those same trees that had once been copious with apples, almost as if they had taken their place so as to no longer leave the trees naked. Several of them had been adorned with light fixtures in the shape of snowmen, and between the trees where the field was wide and flat were reindeer and elves and even a red-and-white Santa construction.

And because the field was so vast, as they drove past it, Ink could make out an entire story there. Somehow the Apple family had found the time to craft the entirety of the Rudolph mythos, all the way from his birth to his ascension to being the lead of the sleigh.

Mac grunted. “Yeah, that was Apple Bloom’s idea. She and her friends helped put it all up.”

“They did a very nice job,” Mrs. Quill said.

“Much appreciated. I’ll be sure to pass that message on to them.”

Ink’s mom leaned in, smiling. “You’re quite chatty tonight, Macintosh. I was under the impression that you didn’t talk much?”

He turned a light shade of scarlet. “Mom!” Ink chided. “Come on, you’re teasing him.”

Her mom laughed. “All right, I’ll leave the poor boy alone.”

“Here we are,” Mac said, sounding quite relieved.

He parked some distance away from the seemingly small farmhouse. The snow was coming down softly, but was having a hard time sticking to the ground and truck’s roof and the top of the house. Inside of the farmhouse shone yellow light, and they could hear Christmas carols playing once again on the radio. The tunes carried like they were being sung directly into their ears. Nearby sat the red barn, the neighboring silo covered in snow. The field where the horses might have played was also awash in white, and inside the barn Ink could see the animals blinking at them.

She regarded the house once again, frowning. “Mac? Are you sure we can all fit?”

“We’ll fit, Ink,” he said resolutely with a nod. “Besides, we’re not gonna stay the whole evening inside. We got a big tree out back that needs some presents.”

They all got out of the car, Ink’s mom carrying the present Ink had managed to buy the day before. The present was small, not really ornate, but she had figured that even something tiny would be better than nothing at all. Plus, she suspected that Mac wouldn’t mind either way.

“Well, I for one think your house looks very lovely,” the older woman said, smiling as Ink took the present from her.

“Thank y’kindly, ma’am,” Mac said.

They walked up to the porch, boots kicking up snow. Somehow in the seconds that passed then Ink’s body temperature plummeted, and by the time they had rung the doorbell, she was shivering.

An elderly, green-skinned lady with a shock of white hair greeted them, yellow eyes squinting in momentary confusion. Then she let out a gasp. “Oh! Macintosh! You brought guests!”

“Eeyup,” Mac said. “Granny Smith, this here is Ink Quill and her mother.”

They exchanged pleasantries, though Ink detected something hidden behind the elderly woman’s eyes.

“You all look so cold! Here, come on inside,” and she ushered them in without giving them a chance to protest (not that Ink would have).

“Mac, take their coats.” He did, and he hung them up in the closet. “Here, why don’t you girls make yourself comfortable on the couch? Ink, you can put your gift on the piano for now. I’ll whip up some nice warm cocoa for us all.”

“Oh, um… thank you,” Mrs. Quill said. Clearly she was unused to being the person treated to by the hostess. Ink put her gift on the piano as told.

They sat down on the couch while Granny worked her magic in the kitchen. A warm fire was glowing in the pit, orange and blue. The smell of burning wood rose from there and wafted into their noses, and Ink thought she could smell a touch of cinnamon in it. On the mantelpiece were a series of holiday-themed photos, mostly of the Apple children, but sitting in one corner was a photo of a couple whom Ink did not recognize. They must have been other family members, she thought. The woman was very pretty, and the man strong-jawed and handsome.

“Granny Smith!” somebody wailed. “Where are the heavy duty batteries? I need them for my Twin Turbine Snow Globe!”

“They’re where I left them, Apple Bloom,” Granny Smith called from the kitchen, “or didn’t you see?”

“Ah did see! But they’re triple A’s and they ain’t gonna be strong enough to power it all—eep!”

This “eep” was directed at Ink, who looked at the young Bloom with a mix of surprise and amusement. While she had kept her boots on, she’d traded her green T-shirt and blue jeans for a black-and-red flannel and brown pants. She still wore that pink bow of hers wrapped in her red hair.

Mrs. Quill elbowed her daughter. “Don’t just stare back! Say something!”

“Um… hello?”

Apple Bloom slowly walked over, seemingly on the tips of her toes. Her mouth was covered by her hands. Her eyes were wide and sparkling with curiosity.

“Um… Apple Bloom, right?”

The young girl gasped. “You know me?”

“Yes… you wrote a bit for the school newspaper, right?” In truth, Ink hadn’t read the newspaper—wasn’t what she liked to read—but she had caught glimpses here and there of articles written by the paper’s fledgling reporter. Apple Bloom even had her own editorial section called “Crusader Call-Ins,” something for underclassmen to write to.

The young girl made a squealing noise. “An’ you must be Ink, Big Mac’s girlfriend!”

As Ink blushed for what was likely not going to be the last time that night, her mother giggled. “Well, you’re quite a smart cookie, aren’t you?”

“Oh!” Apple Bloom suddenly remembered there was someone else there. She did a quick curtsy. “Good evenin’, ma’am. Ah’m Apple Bloom.”

“And a good evening to you, too. I’m Mrs. Quill, Ink’s mother.”

“So you’re the one who gave Mac the verbal lashing of a lifetime?”

Mrs. Quill laughed. “Oh, I didn’t think it was that bad.”

“Really? Cuz Mac said it darn near scared him half to death!”

“Really now?”

“Apple Bloom? Did you clean your room?” Granny Smith called.

“Er… no?”

“Best get on with that, little lady.”

“Oh, all right, Granny Smith. It was nice meeting with y’all, Ink and Mrs. Quill. Maybe we’ll talk some more later!” With that, the young girl skipped away.

Ink’s mom was smiling. “Well, then. If she said you’re his girlfriend…”

Ink buried her face in her hands, groaning.

Granny Smith came back around with three cups of cocoa, expertly stirred and concocted to be just the right amount of sweetness and consistency. “Thank you,” Ink said after the first sip. “You know, it’s been a while since I last had any hot chocolate.”

“Shucks, that so?” Granny Smith shook her head. “That’s a real shame. Ah always thought that these here cold weathers and nights ain’t nothin’ without a bit of hot chocolate to go along with it.”

She gulped her drink, before fixing Ink with one eye closed. “So! You’re the girl Mac fancies, eh?”

Ink sputtered, nearly spraying her drink everywhere. “I, uh… we’re just friends. Good friends.”

“Good friends, eh?” Granny stared at her for a moment longer, before her old, wrinkled face split into a grin. “Well, any friend o’ Mac’s is welcome in this here household, I’ll have you know.”

“Oh! Um… thank you. Very much.”

“I see that we seem to be the only ones here,” Mrs. Quill then said. “Is anyone else coming along?”

“You got that right!” And Granny Smith proceeded to regale Mrs. Quill with a long and extensive genealogy lesson on the Apples. Here and there Ink injected a comment or two out of politeness, but for now the conversation was between her mother and the elderly lady before them.

So Ink, after finishing her cup, asked if she could be excused to get some more. “Help yourself!” Granny said.

She got up and went into the kitchen to do just that, and as she did so, her eyes wandered. This was where the radio was playing softly, and above and around it were draped tinsel and ornaments of every kind. On the stove cooked an entire turkey, and alongside it sat stuffing and potatoes and some sort of soup and a bunch of other foods that lay simmering or baking in the oven and whose smell, combined with the burning wood from the fireplace, saw fit to envelop Ink in a lip-smacking air. Her stomach growled, and she found herself wondering when was dinner.

The ladies continued yapping. Upstairs she heard Apple Bloom as she stomped about her room. And down the hall, coming forward, was Big Mac, pulling the last of the decorations behind him. He stopped when he saw her, then nodded and smiled. She did the same back. It felt right. Then he went along and she waited for the cup to fill.

Her thoughts wandered. She wondered how Artifex and his friends were doing, if they were going to celebrate both Christmas and Gaige’s birthday. She wondered if the boy and the girl would actually get along this time, knowing that the two didn’t have the best relationship; she’d almost laughed at the sheer terribleness of it when she had learned that Gaige’s person for whom she was supposed to buy a Secret Santa gift was none other than the boy from Manehattan himself. It was almost like the universe was conspiring to put the two together, regardless of their own feelings for each other.

She glanced outside. The field rose into hills covered with the silent apple trees and snow and decorations and lights and above them all rose the full moon and behind it lay the stars eternal. The night was clear and clean. She thought back to her other friends. Would tonight be the night when all their dreams came true? Would what Adagio had hinted at days before finally come to fruition? She could only hope so, and so she hoped for the best, a smile on her face.

The front door swung open, and there was whistling.

This was not her house. This was a stranger’s house, and she was in a stranger’s kitchen. She should have felt at the very least awkward, but that was not the case; she felt at peace, serene, comfortable. Perhaps that was because she knew Mac was nearby, the only other person here with whom she was familiar.

Mac…

“Whoo-wee! It is cold out there! Howdy, Big Mac, Granny Smith… er, who’s that there, Granny?”

When she heard that voice, Ink’s mind grinded to a halt. No… Mac said she’d be out!

“This? Oh, she’s someone Mac brought over. Why don’t you warm yourself up in the kitchen? There’s a steaming pot of cocoa waiting for you.”

“Ah think I’ll do just that, Granny!”

Oh, no, please, no…

Stomping. Boots being removed. Feet easing past the foyer into the kitchen. A pause. Then:

“Ink.”

Ink turned and sickly smiled. “Hi, Applejack.”

Chapter Twenty: Eve - Part II

The front door continuously swung open as the minutes ticked on by. The Apple family began to arrive, bringing with them good cheer, presents, and of course, a batch of food to set on the table. Greetings were given, surprise shouted, and kisses and hugs abounded.

None of these Ink noticed. How could she, when she had an angry farmgirl staring her down, while holding onto a mug that had “SIP” printed across its front? Must have been Big Mac’s with the level of diction written there, but Ink knew better than to bring him up in front of his sister.

Applejack’s face wasn’t red. It didn’t even appear like she was under any emotional duress. She maintained a careful mask, devoid of any telltale signs of discomfort or discontent with Ink’s presence. But her arms were crossed, one hand still holding the SIP mug, and her frown, Ink saw, was twitching at the sides. So the girl knew how to hide her emotions; Ink wondered who had been teaching her.

Neither of them actually drank out of their cups, and Ink knew her cocoa was beginning to cool. A distant voice, sounding like a mix between Granny Smith and her mom, came to her, chiding her for wasting some perfectly good hot chocolate. She pushed the voice away and listened to the rest of the house, silently hoping for someone to pop in and relieve her.

No one did. It was loud and the door did keep swinging and yet no one came into the kitchen.

Ink stared at Applejack.

Applejack glared at Ink.

Neither took a sip.

Neither were ignorant of the tension.

Both tried to. Both failed.

And Ink, for all her efforts, could not keep an even gaze; and so she turned away, finding the ground suddenly very interesting. She heard Applejack grunt. A part of her wanted to run, and yet her legs had seemingly frozen over. She could not move. She would not. Why wouldn’t she? Her heart was racing. She knew this girl before her could knock her out at best, and hurt her even more at worse. She had seen her angry and inflamed. It was far smarter to run, wasn’t it?

So why would her legs fail now?

Unless…

Unless now was not the time to run. Now was the time for something else. Confrontation, perhaps. Or bravery. Or was that just some stupid part of her wrestling for control? What was the line between courage and idiocy, anyway? Maybe there was no difference…

Her thoughts were slipping. Focus, Ink. Don’t look like a fool!

“So.”

Applejack’s voice was so sudden, it made Ink start. Her head came up in a sharp nod, and she found the farmer girl glaring emerald daggers into her. Ink’s words caught in her throat.

“What’re ya doing here, Ink?”

“Um… getting some hot chocolate? Granny Smith said I could…”

Applejack snorted. “That ain’t what I meant.”

“Oh.” A dumb thing to say, but Ink couldn’t think of anything else.

“So. Y’mind explaining to me what you’re doing in mah home?”

Ink took a deep breath. She isn’t going to like this. Slowly, so as to not sound frightened or intimidated, she relayed the circumstances leading to her being here. Mac’s invitation, her thinking it over, then acceptance of it. She said her mom was in the other room, talking with Granny. She’d already met Apple Bloom who… well, she left out a few parts, deciding only to say that she seemed like a very sweet and mature girl. Ink figured a bit of flattery for the family would save her skin just a bit.

It might have, or it might not have. Either way, Applejack let out a short chuckle. “Yeah. She’s probably the most mature outta all of her friends.” She almost sounded proud, saying that, and Ink nearly let out a sigh of relief.

Then Applejack’s voice became sharp once more. “But I’m still not sure I much like th’ idea of you hanging ‘round here.”

Ink gulped. “Why’s that?”

But before the farmer girl could answer, someone entered from the kitchen entrance. “Cousin Applejack! So good to see you! Oh? And who’s this lovely little lady keepin’ you company?”

The young man who now stood in the doorway—well, more like leaned against in an attempt to appear suave—was the color of tan wheat fields erupting over the plains down south. Light green eyes, far friendlier than the ones who had been glaring at her, glanced up and down Ink. His hair was slick, and orange like a pumpkin, and his smile was pure white and welcoming, a far cry from the gritty frown now adorning Applejack’s face. The oddest thing about him was his outfit: he was dressed exactly like a cowboy, complete with a flat broad-brimmed hat, wide pants, and silver-starred spurs. It was not clothing fit for winter, and yet he didn’t seem at all bothered by this.

“Friend o’ yours?” the young man asked. He came off of the doorway, hand on his hips, and sauntered over to Ink, flashing that very white grin. He let out a low whistle. “Ain’t you prettier than a golden apple harvest.”

Ink blinked. Was… was she being hit on? At a Christmas party? In front of Applejack? By, presumably, a relative of hers? This was happening?

“Um…”

The young man laughed. “Aw, what’s the matter, girl? Cat catch yer tongue?” He flicked his head, tossing his hair back. “Can’t say I blame you, sweet cheeks. It ain’t everyday southern pride shows up right in front of you.”

Okay. This was happening. This really was happening. Ink peeked around the young man at Applejack. For once, her angry expression had faded; now it was one of bemusement.

“Braeburn,” she lowly intoned.

The young man— Braeburn—was still smiling. “Oh! Where are my manners! Name’s Braeburn, as my cousin Applejack has just so nicely explained. And it would my absolute pleasure t’ make your acquaintance, little missy!”

He held a hand and, after a moment, Ink took it. Braeburn, however, wasn’t content with a handshake; instead, before she could pull away, he leaned down and pecked the top. Ink’s face burned. Applejack’s did as well. Only Braeburn remained impossibly cheerful, and started laughing.

“Braeburn!” Applejack gasped. “What the hay do you think you’re doing?”

He let go of Ink’s hand, turning to face the other girl. “Aw, come on, Applejack! I was just having some fun!”

Ink covered her face with her hands. She was aghast. First Apple Bloom and Granny Smith had teased her relentlessly, then Applejack had confronted her, and now this. Why was tonight being so weird?

“Besides, we’re all just having a good time. Ain’t that right, sweet cheeks?”

He laughed again. Then, all of a sudden, the laughter died away.

Standing in the kitchen doorway like some crimson avenger stood Macintosh Apple. His brow was furrowed and his gaze was set squarely on the other man who stood there before him. Gone was his cheerful smile, his warm demeanor. All of that was replaced with a frown, made seemingly of stone, yet still coiling with barely restrained anger and annoyance.

“Braeburn,” he said, and his tone made it clear he was not up for a light conversation.

Braeburn smiled, but the smile took on a similar feel as the one Ink had made when Applejack had first called for her. “H-hey, there, Big Mac. How’s it hanging?”

“Fine,” the young man rumbled. He crossed his arms. “Y’mind telling me what yer doing with my friend there?”

“Who? Oh, her.” Braeburn spread his arms. “I was just, ah, getting to know her. Never seen her before at these kinds of gatherings, y’know.”

“I do. I invited her.”

Braeburn blanched. “Y-you invited her?”

“That’s right.”

“W-well, she’s a, ah, very pleasant lady, that one, there, and I’ll have you know that—”

“You don’t even know her name, d’ya?”

Braeburn’s whitened face burned. “W-well, I mean, that is to say…” He lowered his head. “I was gonna ask eventually…”

“Sure you were.” Mac unfolded his arms. “Come on. Leave Ink alone and come help me bring in Golden Harvest’s presents.”

His voice made clear there was no room for argument. Like a scolded child, Braeburn stomped off. But at the doorway, he paused, turned, and flashed Ink a smile.

Mac proceeded to cuff him by the ear and pull him away. Relief washed over Ink. She lowered her hands from her face and whispered a soft, “Thank you!” in his direction, but if he heard her, he made no inclination that he had.

Then, just as quickly relief came, so too did it leave, for now she realized she was back in the kitchen with Applejack. And her only way out had just walked away.

In regarding Applejack now, though, it was hard to say if things remained the same. The anger was still there, the flashing, roiling strength of it, and yet somehow it seemed diminished. Bemusement over Braeburn carried over still, and it was hard to say who now earned her ire more—the cousin or the girl. Ink thought to say something, but somehow, her voice remained buried beneath the emotional waves, and so she waited there, waited for Applejack to speak her mind.

Gradually, that stormy expression receded. Silence hung over them—at least as well as it could in a house so alive and vibrant. Then, suddenly, Applejack let out a snort.

“Sorry about Braeburn. Ever since Strongheart broke up with him down in Appleloosa, he’s been trying to get with every girl since jus’ to show her up. Course, that ain’t ever work.”

“I thought he was a bit nice,” Ink said, unsure of why those words came out.

“Normally, he is,” Applejack replied. Her arms uncrossed, and she placed her hands on her hips, blowing a strand of blonde hair out of her face. “Guess when he saw you he jus’... had to say something.”

“Yeah…”

To be fair, it was kind of nice to get someone’s attention. But only kind of.

Applejack worked her jaw, as if trying to search for some more words. “Y’know, Mac’s never done that before.”

“What?”

“Ya heard me. He’s never gone and cuffed Braeburn before for talking to someone. Usually the two get along like pigs in a blanket, but that’s the first I’ve seen him actually annoyed with ‘im.” She fixed Ink with a curious gaze, though it was still a bit resentful. “Guess he must really like you.”

Ink blushed. “O-oh. I mean…”

“Yeah, he didn’t even act that way back when Sugar Belle…” And then the stormy expression returned, angrily and almost violently. Applejack’s hand tightened white against the handle of the cup, like she meant to shatter it.

Ink glanced down at her cup. The hot chocolate had gone cold. Then she looked up and at Applejack. Her voice came out lower than she’d expected. “Sugar Belle?”

Applejack stiffened at the name. Against her better judgement, Ink asked again, “Sugar Belle? Who’s that?”

“Nobody,” Applejack insisted gruffly. She suddenly noticed how tightly she was holding the cup, and turned and put it on the kitchen counter. “Ain’t nobody, that’s who.”

“Doesn’t sound like nobody.”

If looks could kill, Ink would be ten feet under. Applejack’s glare was vitriolic. “She’s nobody.”

She seemed intent on dropping the topic then and there, and under the girl’s glare, Ink could not find it in herself to continue it. So she, too, dropped it. Yet they both remained in the kitchen together, unable to move, or perhaps unwilling to.

A question worked itself into Ink’s mind, but she hadn’t time to process it before she blurted, “Why do you hate me?”

Applejack started. “I-what?”

Ink swallowed, mentally berating herself for bursting out like that. But there was no point in stopping. “Why do you hate me?”

The other girl’s brows came up, then furrowed. “I don’t hate you.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Now Ink was beginning to sound bitter. “All you’ve done is shoot me death stares, even before I got here. So why? I haven’t done anything!”

Applejack appeared shocked. “Ink, I don’t hate you,” she insisted again.

“Well, then you obviously dislike me very much!” Ink exploded, her hands balling into fists. “You know, Artifex always tells me you’re a very calm and composed person, but so far all you’ve been is angry and ill-composed! I don’t get what you’re mad at me for, but the least you could do is explain what you’re deal is!”

“Ink—”

But Ink wasn’t having it. Her voice began rising. “I barely even know you and yet you’ve decided all of a sudden that I’m the scum of the earth! That’s not fair; what gives?” She paused, the gears in her head working overtime. “Is this because of what Hazel shouted? Don’t tell me you believed her!”

“That ain’t what it is—”

“Then what the hell is it? What did I do to deserve your disgust?! WHAT?!”

“IT’S BECAUSE OF MAC!” Applejack roared.

At once, Ink’s gears grinded to a sudden halt. About, the sounds of the home echoed like they were in a lengthy tunnel, far enough away that she could almost hear the thundering of her heartbeat. Yet despite everything, none had seemed to hear them.

Applejack was breathing heavily, a feature Ink immediately noticed. Her anger and frustration dissipated, replaced with only confusion and sorrow. “Mac? What’s… what’s he got to do with this?”

“Everything,” Applejack said. Her voice was grave and stubborn. Angry still. Yet also subdued.

“What do you mean?”

Applejack didn’t answer at first. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, straightening up before exhaling. She opened her eyes and looked at Ink, as if searching her very soul.

Then, in hesitant tones that quickly became inflamed, she spoke.

“Sugar Belle… was Mac’s first girlfriend.”

“First?”

“First an’ only.”

For some reason, that surprised Ink. Surely someone as nice as Mac could have had more?

As if reading her mind, Applejack offered a little chuckle. “He’s a shy one. Prone to only one or two words for the most part. An’ when it comes to the ladies, he says even less. Not sure why, since he lives in a house full of ‘em.”

Her eyes sparkled for a moment. “Which was why, when he showed up one day two years ago, sayin’ how he’d gotten a first date, we were all surprised.”

Then she sighed. “Mac was lovestruck. All starry-eyed and everythin’. Said the girl was the prettiest you’d ever seen. We’d all love to meet her. That sort of stuff. He begged Granny to help him out, though, cuz he’d never been on the date and he didn’t want to mess up badly.” The fierceness returned. “The same thing happened with you, though it was Granny who wanted to help.”

Ink said nothing, letting the girl continue. “Sugar Belle, when we met her, seemed exactly like Mac had described. Very pretty, very well-spoken and polite. Sweet, too. The two of ‘em couldn’t stop giggling and blushin’. I thought…” Her voice became wistful. “I thought, This is it. This is the one for him. And I think we all thought that, too, though we never said it.”

Applejack continued, “One date became two, then two became three, then four, and so on. Y’know, I’d never seen him so happy when he was with her. Not even when the apple trees were in full bloom and he’d gone and picked them all with us. Sugar Belle just made him shine, she did.”

But then her voice dropped. “But then, I guess it wasn’t the same on her end.”

Wasn’t the same?

The farmer girl shook her head. “Mac came home one day. Jus’ like that, I knew he was different. He wasn’t smiling, wasn’t even straight and tall, was all hunched over. His eyes were red. I’d never even seen him cry before.”

She looked up, looked at Ink. “He wouldn’t come out of the house for days. At night I’d hear him crying softly, and asking her and the sky and the walls and everything why this happened. No answer. No answer ever.”

“... why? What did she do?”

“...She’d hurt him. Hurt him badly, Ink. Real badly. Never saw her again. Never wanted to.”

Ink knew there was more to it than that; she just knew. But she also knew that pressing it would yield nothing.

Yet she did not know why Applejack was telling her all this.

Once again, the farmer girl proved nigh-telepathic. “He’s taken a liking to you,” she said. “Somehow, you’ve caught his attention.”

Ink fought to work down her blush. “You think so?” she said.

Applejack nodded. “I know so. And lemme say something else: I think you’ve taken a liking to ‘im, too.” Ink’s blush returned in full-force, but Applejack made no comment. “An’ I’m not so sure what I think of that.”

Silence. Then: “I don’t hate you.”

“Oh.”

“I really don’t, Ink. Really. I’m… I’m sorry that you thought that I did.”

“It’s fine.”

“It ain’t fine. I got no right to treat you like that, especially since I don’t really know you all that well. But…”

The harshness returned. But Ink did not falter under it. “But I’ve seen where this goes once before. I don’t know what y’are to Mac, but I’ve seen where it might go. And I ain’t about to let it happen again, ya hear?”

Ink nodded.

“Good.”

Applejack turned and began walking away, heading back through the doorway. “I ain’t gonna kick you outta the home or anythin’,” she continued. “Mac invited you, and I’m not gonna question that. Enjoy yourself. You and yer mom.”

“I will.”

Pause. Applejack glanced over her shoulder. “One last thing, Ink.”

“What is it?”

Her glare could cut diamonds with how sharp it was. “Don’t you dare hurt Mac. Or I’ll come for you.”

Ink stared at her in silence for a long moment, unable to think of anything to say in response. She thought, though, of Mac, and then how the two had come together in the first place. She thought of the dinner, then of the mall, and then even the time she’d bumped into him on that cold, frosty, December morning.

“Only if you let me punch myself first.”

She didn’t register what she’d just said. But when she did, she found she believed it.

Applejack regarded her carefully. Then, slowly, her lips cracked into an approving smile. “Deal.”

Then she was gone, leaving Ink in the kitchen alone, thinking of the boy who had, in his own way, forced the two of them to bury their hatchet.

Chapter Twenty-One: Eve - Part III

Applejack would not stay the night, though her relatives wanted her to. She had only returned to the house that evening to pick up her gift for Treble’s party; her conversation with Ink had been a diversion, and only a brief one. Shortly after it had finished, she had wished everyone else a hearty goodbye, before setting off for the Mix’s mansion, gift in tow.

Ink finally did come back into the living room, but without a new cup of cocoa. The conversation had diminished her appetite for a warm drink. She came out, a little shaken but otherwise okay, and was immediately swept up by Granny Smith and led to the middle of the room where several other people stood and were talking.

Introductions were in order, but it quickly became apparent to Ink that she would not be able to remember them all. Most had a variation of some Apple-related name, and most had a familiar country drawl to them. There were a few there, however, who stood out for their lack of an Apple surname.

“And these fine folks are Aunt and Uncle Orange!” Granny Smith said, gesturing to a married couple. Both turned to face them, smiles stretching across their faces. A drink each was in their hands, glowing golden.

“Well, good evening,” Aunt Orange said, giving a light curtsy. It was not what Ink was expecting, and so she stared for a moment before catching herself. She apologized, then introduced herself.

Uncle Orange laughed. “Oh, that’s quite all right, Ink. We’re not your ordinary Apples after all. No offense taken.”

“They’re from Manehattan,” Granny Smith explained. “But don’t let their fancy-pants accent throw you off, Ink, girl! They’ve just as much fire as any ol’ Apple among us!” She hooted and slammed a hand on Aunt Orange’s back, pushing her forward a little bit. Somehow, the younger lady was unabashed, and laughed just as strongly, if a bit more… refined.

Ink nodded. “It’s nice to meet you both. I actually know a few people from Manehattan. They’re both from the West Side.”

“East for us,” Uncle Orange said, gesturing with his glass. “It’s a fine city. Have you visited?”

“I have not.”

“Oh, you should. At least once. You’ll love it, I’m sure.”

They talked a little longer, before the two Oranges excused themselves to talk to some more relatives entering through the door. Ink watched them go. Then she turned to Granny Smith.

“They’re—”

“Odd?” Granny finished with a grin.

“Um, I was going to say nice…”

“Oh, that too. But mah point still stands. We don’t have too many high-society types in our family, so the Oranges definitely stick out, eeyup!”

“Too many?”

“Oh, sure! In fact, lemme introduce you t’ a few of ‘em…”

And introduce Ink to them she did. Names and the faces that owned them passed her by. Hands were shaken, words exchanged. Ink quickly became overwhelmed and fell into simply smiling and saying “hello,” and this seemed to satisfy all of those involved. More than once she was complimented about her appearance—“Like a bloomin’ violet!” was one way they put it, and this of course made Ink blush—and, when it was revealed that Big Mac had invited her, there were teasing hushes as the older and younger moved in to get the scoop.

There was a moment, however, that struck Ink as odd. In one of those interactions, after she had revealed that Mac had been the one to invite her, one of the family members there wiped a tear from their eye. “He’s growing up,” Ink heard her say to Granny Smith in low tones. “Pear and Bright Mac would be proud!”

Curious, Ink had turned to ask who they were, if they were here, but the relative had moved on, and by then Ink was was already being ushered into the arms of yet another eccentric and charming Apple-member. The question would not pass her lips and was forgotten in the haze of more introductions.

At one point she was pushed into a small enclosure where a very old man stood bent over a cane. He spoke quietly, though, a far cry different than the Apples who were gathered in the home. He might have been as old as Granny Smith.

“You’re not an Apple,” he said.

“Er, no… no, I’m not,” Ink replied.

“They’re branching out?” He seemed to put a lot of emphasis on that second word, and it took Ink a second to realize why.

“Was that a pun?” she said.

The old man let out a wheezy laugh. “Ah, a sharp one! Good, good. Keep your head on straight, y’hear?”

Ink nodded, though a bit dumbly. This man was pleasant enough company, but had yet to introduce himself. She decided not to pressure him.

The old man murmured some more, then slowly melted into the crowd, becoming just another yellowish addition to the throng.

“So you’ve met Grand Pear, huh?”

Another man, dark-skinned and silver-haired, had suddenly appeared. He regarded Ink kindly, then held out a hand. “Burnt Oak, young lady. You must be Big Mac’s guest.”

“Ink Quill.” Silently, as she shook his hand, she thanked him for not calling him Mac’s date. “That was Grand Pear?”

“Oh, yes,” Burnt Oak rumbled. He gestured to the crowd, but the Pear was already lost. “I hope he wasn’t too much.”

“He was nice. That’s all.”

“Really? Then I guess he has changed,” he mused.

Ink regarded him with a curious stare. “What do you mean?”

“I knew Mr. Pear when I was a kid. He was a lot meaner back hen. Didn’t seem intent on changing until a long time later. He’s as stubborn as any other Apple here, and he’s not even blood-related.”

“Really? So he married in?”

“No, his daughter did.” Burnt Oak paused, looking back at Ink. She sensed words dangling on his lips. His eyes seemed a little sad, then.

Then he shook his head, and a smile appeared. “But, anyway. Long story short, this is his first Christmas party in the Apple household, and I’d say he’s enjoying yourself. How about you?”

And just like that, the topic was avoided. Ink could practically feel it slip from her grasp. Her curiosity remained, but, pushed and paraded about the joyful home, she found herself caring less and less as the night went on.

And on it did.

Gifts came in, to join hers that was on the piano, and soon it was overflowing with boxes and bags of various holiday motifs. The gifts moved from there to the bottom. Soon the call rang out for the gifts to be taken outside, and so Ink gathered hers up in her arms, took her mother’s side, and, along with the other people there, shuffled through the narrow doorway leading to the world beyond.

The cold air smacked hard, but there was no time to flinch for she was already being pushed forward by those around her. Then a space opened and the crowd separated. Like coat-wearing pilgrims set in the darkness of the winter night they walked forth with their gifts in their hands and scarves and hoods covering their necks and faces, misted breath releasing before them, their footsteps becoming low imprints in the soft mesh of the snow. Above stretched a large canvas of swirling stars marked by the glowing eye of the moon peering down. Away from the city lights, Ink saw all that the sky truly had to offer, and she was not alone, for the others there gasped in delight at the vast expanse set above them all.

Crossing the field of snow, they passed through then a narrow grove of blackened tree husks that stood as guards around some unknown enclosure. Lights emanated from deep within. As they shuffled on through they saw hanging from the branches little lanterns and lines of glowing orbs that stretched to-and-fro and swung in the evening breeze like little ghosts of Christmas past.

The grove widened. The crowd kept going, but Ink stopped in shock.

Though barren and asleep and devoid of its fruits, the tree that stood before her was a massive one, stretching high into the night sky like a wooden skyscraper. In its branches were hundreds of lights, orange and red, criss-crossing each other like a glowing quilt. The trunk was the most unique part, though; it seemed as though two embryo trees had grown together, hugging their bodies together in a tight embrace. The space from the fork that resulted must have been a result of careful growth and nurturing, or otherwise some powerful nature goddess’s doing, for it resembled no natural space but instead that of a heart. A heart, Ink seemed to see, that beat against the backdrop of the nightly forest, alive. She knew reasonably that this was not the case, and yet the tree seemed more than simply another plant; in a way, it had its own personality, its own characteristics, that made it seem almost human.

They all gathered around the tree. One by one they placed their gifts at the base and stood back. As the stack grew, the lights that hung in the tree’s branches began to glow even brighter.

“If only they were here,” someone whispered to Ink’s side; who they were, she did not know, and she did not ask.

Soon all of the gifts had been placed. The lights were all glowing, pulsating, beating. They were warm and welcoming, and despite the strangeness of all that was occuring, Ink did not shy away. About, arms and heads rose and were held high. Smiles broke out. What manner of traditions this was, Ink did not know, but who was she to question the loving feeling she had deep in her soul?

And then, at some unspoken command—perhaps it was Granny, or the tree, or some other deity unbeknownst to them yet still influential to the end—their voices rose, and they began to sing.

“Ah didn’t know y’could sing.”

Ink glanced at Mac, blushing slightly under his praise. “I didn’t know you could, either.”

Both were standing on the porch of the Apples’ home, beneath the soft lights dangling from the small shingled rooftop. Inside was everyone else, celebrating and generally having a good time, from what Ink could gather. It had been some time since they had gathered before the tree; in truth, Ink did not know how much, but she supposed when you were enjoying yourself, time tended to pass quickly and unknown, and it was far better to enjoy it than question it further. It was still snowing and all about the world was white and glowing with the lights and down the road, far down the road, stood the city still.

Mac was standing a short distance to her side, having come out only a moment before. He indeed had sung at the tree, and so had she, and yet for some reason their voices had drowned at the rest and all attention had been vested on them as they sung. Untrained, unpracticed, they had realized all too soon what was going on, and had fallen silent; but at the encouragement of the Apple family as a whole, they had begun once again.

“Where’d you learn to sing?” he asked, leaning over the railing, his voice soft and steady.

“Nowhere,” she admitted. “I just do it from time to time.” She paused. “You know, it’s funny. A few weeks ago, Gaige and Hazel said the same thing.”

“What, that you’re good?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, they ain’t lying, that’s fer sure. I bet if you practiced real hard, you’d make it big.”

She was blushing fully now, and regarded him with a smile. “Aw, thank you, Mac. But, honestly, it’s not something I see myself doing.” She tilted her head, closing one eye, a sort-of wink directed now at him. “You, on the other hand? You’ve got a great voice.”

He let out a short guffaw. “Aw, heck. It ain’t much.”

“Well, it’s something, that’s for sure. Seriously! Why aren’t you part of the school choir? They could use a baritone like yours.”

“It’s like you said. Ain’t my thing. ‘Sides,” he added, glancing back at her, “I’m not the type to stand up in front of everyone and put myself out there.”

“Didn’t stop you back at the tree, did it?”

“Didn’t stop you, either.”

They matched smiles. Alone like this, Ink found his company remarkably pleasant—not that it ever wasn’t—and she thought he felt the same with her.

“Maybe we should start a band,” she suggested lightly. “Or a doo wop group.”

“A two-man doo wop? Y’think that’ll work?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“Yeah. Maybe we can have Artifex be our dancer.”

“Artifex dances?”

“Oh, yeah. What? You’ve never seen ‘im?”

“No! You have to tell me!”

“Well, he’s pretty good. Showed me and Lone Wolf some time back. Learned a while ago, still got it today. If it weren’t for his leg, well, I’m sure he would’ve swept some girl off her feet with his skill.”

She laughed, a little too loudly, and he regarded her with a curious expression. “What? Know something I don’t?”

“Maybe. You know Adagio?”

“Yeah?”

“Well…”

She let the thought hang, waiting for him to connect the dots. When he did, his eyes widened, and he let out a whistle. “Hoo, boy. I hope he knows what he’s getting into.”

“Trouble?”

“With Adagio? That’s the least of his worries.”

“Well. I’m sure things will work out fine between them.”

“What makes you say that?”

She smiled. “Let’s just say… they don’t know what the other is thinking, but I do.”

Mac laughed. “Ink, yer a sly one, y’know?”

“So I’m told. You know, I think both had a plan for tonight—”

She was interrupted by a light buzzing coming from her phone in her pocket. Taking it out, she saw that there was a message from Artifex. “Well, speak of the devil,” she said. “Wonder what he’s up to at Treble’s?”

She flicked past the lock screen, opened the message—and screeched.

“What? What is it?” Mac was quick to ask, immediately coming over to her side.

“I knew it! I just knew it!” And she showed him what Artifex had sent.

A selfie, of all things, which Artifex was not known for. He was smiling, unable to contain his blush, as next to him stood a certain ex-Siren, leaning in close for a light peck to his cheek.

Mac whistled. “Dang. Scored himself the Siren.”

“I think it’s more the other way around,” Ink said, still smiling stupidly. “Oh, Artifex…”

She quickly typed in a reply, with Mac adding in his own comment of congratulations (saying, “What took ya so long, Arty? --Mac), before sending both. A few moments later, there was another image sent, but it appeared Adagio had taken Artifex’s phone. The peck had become a full kiss, and the boy’s face was bright red. Then, another message was sent: “Took him long enough.”

“Oh, Adagio,” Ink said, “if only you really knew!”

A few more messages were sent, before Artifex managed to take back his phone. He thanked both Ink and Mac, and wished them a good night. No further messages came, but no more were needed. The night had indeed been a success for the boy and the Siren, and Ink found her joy for them just barely able to be contained.

And as always, the silence came, but it was not uncomfortable or off-putting, for in that silence the two there were together, and that was found to be enough. And so time passed and they were still outside and it was still snowing and neither thought to leave the other’s side just yet.

“You know,” Ink then began suddenly, before faltering, for she did not know what he knew, nor what she knew.

“Yeah?” he said anyway.

“Oh, you know.”

“Ah… don’t think I do…”

“Oh. Hah.”

“Ha?”

“Just…”

Ink let out a breath. “I’ve been thinking.”

“What about?”

“Us, I guess,” she said.

“Us?”

“Yeah.”

She turned around, and saw that he was actually a lot closer to her than she’d expected. Her heart… her heart was racing. Why was it racing? Why didn’t she want it to stop?

“And…” She knew what she was about to say. Yet, she wasn’t afraid to say it. “And about the date.”

Mac blinked. “O-oh? Y-you mean—”

She nodded. She thought she could hear her heartbeat echoing out of her chest, thumping to the rhythm of another beat, and she thought—and it was a very strange, and also very exciting thought—it was the beat from Mac’s own heart.

Her first line came to her: She fell in love once.

“I-I mean… i-if you don’t mind, that is…” Her tongue felt thick. She felt thick. Use your words, Ink! “I… uh…”

“Ink?” Mac stepped closer. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” she whispered breathlessly.

She swallowed. “I guess what I’m trying to say is… I would not mind another thing like that.”

Mentally she berated herself. That was the lamest thing she had ever said. How could she face Mac?

And yet, she found herself staring deeply into his eyes, utterly lost in them. And he, in turn, would not look away.

Then, slowly, in seconds too long to be justifiable, Mac said, “Really?”

“Y-yeah! I, um… I’d like to get to know you better. Um…”

“Yeah. Ah… I’d like, that, too.”

Now it was Ink’s turn to say, “Really?”

“Eeyup.”

No more words were said, then. Ink had exhausted all of hers, and so had Mac. Both of their faces burned with the result of the conversation, the quiet admission of something more, that neither could fully vocalize but that both could understand. And in that understanding, there bridged a connection between the two. Where that bridge led, neither could say then.

But, as they walked back inside, Ink’s hand slipped into his, it was decided that they would go to that place readily together.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Eve - Part IV

In the late hours of that night, when all was said and all was done, only then the party that began, finally did come undone.

A poetic statement, to be sure, but it was true. Darkness had fallen over everything, blacker than fresh ink, and though the Apple home shone courageously through, it was clear that the hour had come. Gifts were taken home and food packaged into little boxes to be served at another time. Hugs were shared, kisses as final departures. One by one, the Apple family filtered out into the deep night, heading back to their homes.

Ink was among those who stayed to help clean up and wish the others fond farewells. Braeburn sauntered up to her at some point, perhaps to offer yet another moment of flirting, but one hard look from Mac sent him scurrying. It made Ink feel a little bad just as much as it made her feel good.

She remembered Applejack’s words: “He’s taken a liking to you.” That farmer girl was more perceptive than Ink had given her credit.

Afterwards, with the help of the rest of the Apples, they cleaned the home and swept the floors, doing so diligently and with small conversation. The radio maintained Christmas tunes all throughout, though its volume was kept low and the most that they did with it was hum. They swept up the dirt and cleaned the mud and helped wash the dishes and put them all away even as the clock ticked closer and closer to midnight.

“Hoo, wee!” Granny Smith exclaimed, wiping her brow. “Ah guess that jus’ about does it! Thank you kindly fer all yer help, Ink and Mrs. Quill.”

“Of course!” Mrs. Quill said. “Though all that work has made me a little dizzy… could I have a glass of water?”

“Shore you can! Come on over to the kitchen and I’ll fix you up.”

When they had gone, they left Big Macintosh, Apple Bloom, and Ink in the living room. “Thanks fer comin’,” Apple Bloom said before Mac could. She smiled up at Ink. “It was great havin’ you!”

“Aw, thank you, Apple Bloom,” Ink said. “It was great being here.” The two hugged. They separated, and then Apple Bloom let out a yawn.

“I think I’m gonna head off to bed, now, Mac,” she said to her brother. “If that’s all right with you…”

“Go on ahead,” Mac said, nodding. “Good night, Apple Bloom. Merry Christmas.”

The farewell was repeated between the three of them, and then Bloom headed off for her room.

“Thanks for having me, Mac,” Ink murmured. She sidled up to him and gave him a quick hug. It felt right.

He placed a hand on her head, and she knew he was smiling. “An’ thanks for decidin’ to come.”

He paused. Then he said, with a bit of hesitance to his voice, “Would you consider comin’ again next year, maybe?”

She looked up at him, smiling as well. “I just might.”

Mrs. Quill and Granny Smith came back, talking about other things that neither Mac or Ink listened to. Mrs. Quill finished her drink, and handed it over to Granny, thanking her for having them over. All thanks was largely unneeded, Granny argued; “You made up for it by helpin’ us clean up.”

Then she looked over to Mac, and he and Ink realized they were still hugging. They separated, blushing, while Granny and Mrs. Quill chuckled at their expense. “Well, you two best be heading on home, now,” the elderly lady said. “Wouldn’t want to keep you up all night. Mac, you drive them on— and be careful, y’hear?”

“I hear.”

So it was that the two Quills and Mac walked out of that home and into the night and into Mac’s truck and after he had started it, the lights glowing like streams of fireflies awakening for the spring that was to come in the long future, he turned the truck around and pushed lightly on the pedal and together they sped into the night. It was warm. There were no words. None that needed to be said, anyway, for all that needed voice had long been expressed back there in the home and in that hug and while Ink still blushed as she knew her mother would tease her relentlessly for what she had just seen, she felt safe in the knowledge that what was seen was true, and though she did not know where it would take her, she knew it would take her somewhere truly great.

The night was filled with stars and the moon. One might think that because of this it would be bright and that it was the sign of a new time for the three. One would be right in thinking that.

But the darkness of the night cut through the spaces that divided the stars and it was larger than the light of all there combined.

They stood in the foyer, Mac and Ink. The latter’s mother had gone in first, complaining of a slight headache. She insisted Mac stay a little moment longer, and for this Ink felt strangely grateful. The door was open and the night was still there outside, waiting to take its son back home.

It was quiet in the home. Aside from the ticking grandfather clock there carried no other sounds. Even Ink’s breathing was subdued. She stood by Mac and he by her, unsure of how long either should stay but again unwilling to leave just yet. Did history repeat for those singular times when it became largely necessary to do what must be done? A question set forth before them, not waiting for an answer, not letting them anyway. And neither were thinking it, really; all that was on their minds was the person that kept close.

Ink had a gift in her hands. A present from Mac, given to her as they had exited the car. She put it down by her feet, telling Mac softly that she appreciated it and she would open it later. It was late anyway and opening gifts at such an hour, while allowed, did not seem fitting. And Mac had nodded to this and had agreed.

So they waited there together as Ink’s mom did what she had to do in the kitchen.

Then the two were driven by something invisible. They turned, to face each other, perhaps to say something, but when they had seen they had moved at the same time, both paused and were filled with crippling indecision. The world seemed to recede, fading into blurry lines and fractures, until all that was left were those two. That same invisible force placed its hands on their backs and began to push. Neither felt inclined to stop it.

Outside were the same wind chimes that had hung by the door all those nights prior. There was no wind, and yet something still carried those chimes back and forth, and so they began to sing. They sung in indecipherable words yet the tone was as understood as the names of the two who bore auditory witness to them. They sung deeply and richly and were beautiful in the silence of the night, a song that neither would forget, a song that would echo deep in the memory of their souls and their hearts, more than a song: a serenading tune.

Ink and Mac crept closer. The boy leaned his head down, and the girl leaned her head up. There were no thoughts, then. Only action, pure and simple and right and true. What was going to happen? What else, other than what was meant to be?

The song swelled. The two grew closer, until their lips were almost touching, and she could taste his breath on hers, and her heart was thudding in her chest, yet at the same time it was not rushing, for maybe it knew more than her head did that this was how it was supposed to go, how it was always supposed to go, and so it was no longer nervous or excited but accepting and happy and rested from those emotions and this might not have made sense to the rational world at large but this was the heart and the heart operated separate from that place so who was to say it operated under the same laws?

The heart cannot help for whom it yearns. The echoes of a universal truth.

Their lips brushed against each other…

… and the chimes began wailing, and they stopped, for it was not actually the chimes that broke through that moment, but the wailing of someone inside the house, in pain, and the night was shattered forever by that cry.

“Mom? Oh my God, Mom! Mac, get one of the bowls—hurry!”

“Eeyup! Here, Mrs. Quill, just place this under your chin, there ya go…”

“My head… my head…”

“What’s wrong with yer head?”

“It hurts! It really hurts! Oh, God!”

“O-okay… Ink, get on the phone. Mrs. Quill, just breathe, okay, just breathe…”

“On it!”

“911, what is your emergency?”

“Yes, it’s my mother, she’s… Oh, God, she just threw up… my address is—”

“Oh, God…”

“Mom? Oh my God, no, no, no!”

“Mrs. Quill? Mrs. Quill!”

“Ma’am? Ma’am, what is going on? What is your address?”

“Ink, she’s not breathing!”

“Oh my God! Please, hurry! My address is 11 Sherriford Road, I need an ambulance, she’s not breathing—

“Mrs. Quill! Pfft! Pfft!”

“Okay, I am sending an ambulance to your location. Can you tell me what she’s doing now?”

“I told you, she’s not breathing—”

“She’s breathin’! Okay, Mrs. Quill, I need you to stay upright, okay? Just keep the bowl close and— there you go, there— Ink, where’s the damn ambulance?!”

“Where are you guys? Hurry, she’s—”

“Mmph!”

“Oh, God! I think she’s having a seizure—”

“Mrs. Quill! Oh God, oh God—”

“Ma’am, I need you to stay calm, the ambulance is on its way—”

“Mac! Please, Mac, please!”

“I’m trying! Mrs. Quill, come on! Come on, stay with us!”

“Mom! Mom!”

“Ma’am, you need to stay calm—”

“Stay with us—”

“Oh, God! Oh my God, no, no! Mom! MOM!”

Chapter Twenty-Three: Lullaby

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Dwindling Flame

It was six in the morning, and already the snow was beginning to melt.

No doubt that the recent Christmas chill was beginning to fade. Change came, and it was through the melting of the snow outside that that change formed and coiled about the streets and cities of the darkened world in that early morning. That change was quick like a snake in the grass that had long slumbered, crippling the white heaven that had pervaded for weeks and rendering it little more than a blobby, wet mockery of what had once been.

For that spirit that came with the holidays was now removed from the memories of the sentient. The lights had been taken down. The trees were removed and either thrown into bushes or left in ditches or sold at a low price so as to make up for all of the residue pines left coating carpets and floors. Their decorations were bundled up with ropes and haphazard knots, and they were collected into thin, cardboard boxes and placed in dark attics or basements, darker still. What had been the soul of that time now was gone. Buried, perhaps. For another twelve months it would lay dormant and only the young and foolish would still find time to reflect.

Now was no time for that. The world had returned to its previous manner, one of pure cynicism and regret. Would work settle in and burden they who walked the land again? None knew then, and none would know until it had already happened. The dawn was already here, anyway. Six in the morning was being close to late. Time to get up and go about the day, or the days, or the week, then the month, until all that had been good was habitually thrown asunder. Only then would peace come. So it was said.

It was six in the morning, and the snow was beginning to melt. But not fast enough so as to avoid the stomping, frantic footfalls of a friends bound for a tragedy that had already passed.

On the twenty-seventh of December, which was a Saturday as dull as the grey sky outside, Ink Quill turned to see the door to the hospital’s waiting room thrown open. The boy who had done so apparently had not taken into account the stoic quietness that pervaded from within. A group of praying families turned their heads and regarded the open door with notable distaste, but otherwise did not say anything, even as the door failed to widen for the group that numbered in much and pushed on through.

The boy was the first to come to her, garbed in that yellow jacket that had always been his—a little dopey, if she was being honest. If he was speaking, she did not hear them. She could only blink mutely like an idiot. She had done so for the most part of the three past days and it did not seem she had any intent to do otherwise. Dimly she was aware of the boy’s other, a puffy-haired girl who, in another time, might have regarded her with a mix of amusement and sinister depth, yet who now stood by, eyes wide and sad, words unable to form in her throat.

She knew them. Both of them. And she knew the others who had come with them, who stood in the doorway, shuffling out to the side so as to look at the sorry state of the girl who had seen too much. Perhaps it was like a roadside attraction where the people would slow and stop and stare at a terrible scene so damned terrible forthright that there was no decision made but to wait and wonder what had transpired.

The boy placed his hands on her shoulders, steadying her, getting her to look at him. His cerulean eyes were a bright contrast to her dull burgundy ones. They stared at each other for a moment, but for Ink, it seemed like forever.

Then the boy pressed forward and wrapped his arms around her and held her close, and so the dam that had housed the waters of her soul broke, and Ink Quill cried.

“We’re here,” Artifex Frost whispered to her, softly, and she caught a breakage in his voice, and knew that he, too, was crying. “We’re here.”

Ink said nothing. She buried her face in his shoulder, no doubt ruining his jacket. Another pair of hands snuck forward. It was Adagio, there by her side, by Artifex’s side, and though she had no tears to speak of, her eyes were closed and her brow was furrowed. They all hugged, and Ink cried into the two of them.

They separated, and Ink managed a tearful smile. “Thank you for coming,” she whispered hoarsely. She had been drinking from the water cooler for the past several days, plus the water that came with the hospital’s breakfast meals, and yet her throat remained as dry as ever. “And congratulations, you two. Took you long enough.”

Artifex managed to smile back at that. “Yeah, well… turns out we’re both kind of dense.” He let out a weak chuckle, then a groan as Adagio punched him in the shoulder.

“Well, this boy certainly could sweep any woman off of her feet, if he tried a little more often,” Adagio said, retracting her fist. She winked at Ink. “Thank you, by the way, for not telling him.”

“I wouldn’t have dreamed of it.”

All three knew, however, that this was light and brief conversation in effect; the real topic had yet to be discussed, but who among them would be the one to broach it? For how could any one person or any group of people bring up the subject of tragedy that had just occurred? And how could they, when they saw the state of their friend, in good conscience dare to muster up such a bad memory?

Only the one who had gone through it ever could, and so, with her smile slipping off of her face, Ink explained to them, in hoarse whispers, what the doctors had explained to her.

There was a hole in Mrs. Quill’s brain. It was not natural. Holes in the brain never were good and when the hole was not just any hole but a bleeding rupture, the message was all the more clear.

The hole was 7 millimeters in diameter, less than the diameter of a dime. A hole that big, however, was unequivocally dangerous. It fell within the 6 to 15 millimeter ranges for holes and had developed in one of the blood vessels coursing through Mrs. Quill’s brain. It was not just an ordinary hole. It was what was known as an aneurysm.

The aneurysm was the result of the walls of the vessel slowing becoming weaker and weaker due to constant enlargement of the vessel while blood pumped through the brain. At 7 millimeters, it was considered a medium-sized aneurysm.

Once the aneurysm had opened, this had resulted in a subarachnoid hemorrhage (SAH). Brain bleeding. The opening was what had created the intense head pain that Mrs. Quill had felt beforehand. The bleeding itself resulted in intense nausea and vomiting. The trauma experienced resulted a seizure, thus the lapse in consciousness.

This was to say nothing of the trauma Ink and Mac were feeling, having been the ones to witness everything, but such a topic was neither here and there and would have to be addressed at a different point in time.

Once Mrs. Quill had been transported to the hospital, the doctors ran a CT scan of her brain. This was where they had discovered the aneurysm. To promote clotting, they inserted platinum coils up through her groin and traveled through one of the many arteries crossing her body, heading up to her head, where the coils were inserted.

To prevent further ruptures or the injury furthering into a hemorrhagic stroke, Mrs. Quill was given special medication. Unfortunately, the medication resulted in swelling of the brain. Mrs. Quill, recovering somewhat while at the hospital, lapsed once again in and out of consciousness. Severe swelling occurred in her occipital lobe and in her cerebellum, affecting her visual prowess and memory.

In private, a nurse confided with Ink that her mother’s brain was actually already swelling due to the brain hemorrhage. By some miracle, this was good. The swelling allowed the blood pooling to only be in one area of the brain and not spread to others, thereby reducing overall damage.

Ink overheard a similar sentiment from other nurses: this was a miracle. But what miracle was that of seeing a loved one crippled by a hidden sickness? It did not help, too, that Ink was subject to the possible outcomes by one uncompromisingly blunt doctor.

She was to be prepared to face other complications.

First, that of vasospasm, a complication resulting in irritation by the leaked blood causing narrowing of the blood vessels. That would occur in 15 to 20 percent of all patients, a number she barely registered.

The chance of severe brain trauma was 20 to 35 percent even with the aneurysm treated.

The chance of another aneurysm appearing was also within that range, though it could not be ascertained if that would occur.

The chance of Ink’s mother waking up anytime soon was low. The doctor had given her the percentages but she had since forgotten them because there were too many numbers that night and she did not want to think of them any longer.

Due to the region where the aneurysm had occurred, the chance that Ink’s mother would even remember her… she did not want to even consider that.

And the chance of death was 30 to 40 percent. A percentage that would only grow in time, if more complications arose.

Estimated hospitalization time: unknown. Estimated time for recovery: unknown. Estimated cost of treatment: unknown. Like flashing lights, this word appeared in every waking and non-waking corner of Ink’s mind. It was there even in the dark, when all lights were gone save for that of the NICU where her mother was placed.

And whenever Ink closed her eyes, she saw only her mother on the floor, unconscious, in a pool of her own vomit, dying, dying, dying, a nightmare she could not escape, whose existence now bled into reality.

This was what Ink told those who had gathered there, and she did this as bravely as she could manage. But talking was no longer her forte, and by the end of it all she had lost her voice, and so she fell back into despondent silence, the small task completed, but the bigger problem still in play. Mac placed a hand on her back, drew her close; they hugged, silent, in this together until the end of the road, wherever that led.

It was a long time before anyone there spoke.

“Can… can we see her?” Artifex asked. He leaned heavily on his cane.

Ink nodded. After a gentle pat from Mac, she got up and led them into the NICU.

“Nurse Golding, it’s my friends. Can they…”

“Of course, Ink. But be quick about it, please.”

They all shuffled into the small room. Mrs. Quill was lying on her back, covered in a thin hospital gown and blanket, upon which were blue polka-dots like little drops of ink set upon a white canvas. There was a respirator on her face. Wires laced through her hair like thin, skeletal fingers, and these lit up at some ends as they scanned her brain activity. Her hair had not been cut. Her eyes were closed. She was breathing laboriously, and on occasion would turn and shuffle in her bed so as to grow more comfortable, but it appeared to be in vain.

Ink did not need to direct their eyes. They moved on their own across the scene. By the bed was a white monitor, reading out her mother’s vital signs, beeping methodically, in a tone that would have suggested panic had they not all been so tired. The smell of hospital ammonia festered.

There were other patients in the ward, also unconscious. Ink knew of one who was an older man with greying hair and a balding face whose eyes had been perpetually closed for close to a month now. He was in a coma from a terrifying stroke. His family came in regularly. It was always quiet in his room, too. Ink had heard some nurses discussing at length his treatment, and more than once she had heard them talk about disconnecting him from life support.

She had been careful not to look into that room since. There were enough reminders of the end of life already in front of her. Nurse Golding came around and placed a hand on her shoulder. Nothing was said.

Artifex took a step forward, one hand stretched endlessly toward Mrs. Quill; he seemed not to notice this. The hand was still and poised. It was, in a sense, like a ghostly phantom reaching back towards the land of the living, towards one who was on the brink, so as to pull them back… or maybe that was just Ink’s mind going crazy, going mad with grief, seeking to put some artistic revelation or comparison to what had happened, if only to make sense of it. But then Artifex did seem to notice his hand, and his eyes momentarily went wide and he brought his arm down and he rested on his cane and said nothing. His face turned weary.

“Ink…”

She turned, and was surprised to see Gaige and Hazel entering the NICU. The first thing she noticed was that Gaige had cut her hair short. Her pigtails were gone. Her green eyes trailed first over her writer friend, then over to Mrs. Quill, then back to Ink. Hazel seemed on the brink of tears, for her glasses, set on her nose, were shaking, were quivering.

They came closer, and of course nothing was said, for what could be said at all if anything but empty and doubtful promises? They came forward, stood in front of Ink. They stretched out their arms. Ink fell into them, almost unconsciously. Their embrace was warm, but Ink was tired, and could cry no longer, and so they stood there, in that ward, while the others looked on, and Mrs. Quill was silent, and so was Ink, and it was all too quiet to bear.

All too quiet to bear.

Chapter Twenty-Five: The New Normal

In the days to come there would be more visitors. An influx of them. Always coming, always going. Faces and names to those faces. An abundance of multi-colored winter clothes and scarves and hats and gloves and red faces and red eyes. And there were tears. But she, Ink, could not shed any for herself, for she had shed all the tears she could, and now there was nothing in her but an empty well of emotion gone extinct.

And numbness.

This was what Ink felt during those days. It was a feeling she could not shake. Perhaps it came from the empty well of nothingness. Or perhaps it was instead the unkempt and uneven solution of every emotion there was that was resulting in the numbness.

Perhaps.

Winter Break was to be in effect until the second of January, so Ink had time. Too much of it, in fact. The faces that came expressed their deepest sympathies but none served to alleviate her of the pain and suffering that was at hand. None, too, realized the extent this pain would be traveling.

She was forced to head home on Sunday, the twenty-eighth. She knew it was a good idea, because she had slept in the same clothes for several days straight, and it would not do to become sick in a hospital, but she had been hesitant if not outright pigheaded in not wanting to go home just yet. It took some coercing from Artifex and a gentle, reassuring pat from Mac for her to fully commit.

Mac drove her home that day in his truck which now felt noticeably emptier and colder. The ride was filled with nothing but the sounds of the heater starting and failing. At one point Mac tried to turn on the radio. On the radio came a song, too, a song that caused visible dismay for Ink:

And so after this the radio had gone silent and it was to be silent for future rides.

When they came to Ink’s home, they saw that the chimes that had nights before sung and wailed were gone, as if they had been robbed by some unseen ghost, taken to the blackest void set deep in the earth, never to be seen again. This did not concern Ink in the slightest. The chimes were bad memories, she figured, and in private she thought it good that they were now gone, even if, in their absence, the porch seemed all the more lonely. She unlatched the screen door and unlocked the one behind it, then stepped forward into the empty home.

The vomit had pooled on the carpet and had long dried. Wordlessly, she and Mac gathered towels and did their best to clean the residue. The carpet became white with the soapy suds and the smell of lemon-scented detergent filled the drafty home until surely there would be no other smells but it. When they were done, they put the towels in the kitchen sink and set about rinsing and drying them. They did not deign to put them in the washing machine just yet.

Ink tidied up the sofa, the one from where her mother had fallen. She put the pillows back where they belonged. She fixed the cushions and draped a blanket over the back side, where one could grab it if the need arose. Then she went around the living room and straightened and fixed whatever she could. Mac helped her. Soon all that had been awry was fixed and they stepped back to admire their work.

Ink’s hands were itchy. She clenched and unclenched them. She wore a frown that was kept steady through sheer will, though she almost broke down again when Mac hugged her close. And of course, they said nothing, nor did they need to say anything, for what they had done spoke volumes anyway.

Then Ink turned away. Mac’s hand slipped away from her, and he let her go. She went down the hall and turned into the bathroom. She flicked on the light switch. The mirror was dirty. So was the sink, the counter. These would need to be cleaned, but they would not be today. For now she had to focus on herself. She went to the back and turned on the faucet and let the water run. It was warm and steamy.

She showered for a long time. Her hair had grown a considerable length and now was tickling her shoulders. She ran her hands through it, reflecting. When she was little, she did not like to have her hair long, but was also afraid of having it cut. Her mother had taken up scissors and did the cutting herself. This was how Ink had developed her hairstyle, a gift from her mom. From time to time she would do this, even after Ink had conquered her fear of the barbershop. Each time, Ink would protest, but secretly she enjoyed it. A mother’s nimble fingers made for a simple yet noteworthy style.

When she finished showering, she stepped out and draped a towel around herself. Then she came out of the bathroom and went into her room, where she changed once again. At her dresser she sat down and combed through her hair and thought once again her mother cutting it, and she debated taking some scissors and snipping away at the length, but then she decided against it. She looked past her bed and out the window. The sun had come out and was shining over the snow, blindingly so. There were no bird sounds. She glanced at the clock, saw that it was a little past 9 in the morning. She had yet to eat, yet did not feel an inclination of hunger.

She came down the stairs and was surprised to see Mac’s truck still in the driveway. She went into the kitchen where she saw him cooking up some eggs. Breakfast. He glanced up at her and offered a little smile, to which she nodded but said nothing and did not smile back. He did not push her. She went into the dining room table and saw he had even set up plates for her, but none for himself. It was odd. But she still said nothing, and she sat down.

Mac finished cooking. As he came into the room, bringing the pan with him, she could smell the eggs he had made. They were scrambled. They had onions and tomatoes and some basil leaves—he must have fished them out of the fridge. Unconsciously, her mouth watered. He set a batch down and scooped all of the eggs onto her plate. Another smile. He put the pan back into the kitchen and came back with a cup of coffee for her. She took it with a grateful nod. Then he settled back into the chair and folded his hands together.

She had not realized how little she had eaten in the past several days until she had finished the first batch of scrambled eggs and had moved on to the second. The coffee was a good combination of bitter and sweet. Mac had even put in a pinch of cinnamon, something she had never tried but now was finding quite appealing. Perhaps in the future she would have to try this herself.

She stopped eating, then. She glanced outside. The snow was low today and there were little trickles of water running down the driveway into the gallows that was her backyard. The big oak tree out back swayed in a silent wind and the little birdhouses that her mother had put up many years ago were vacant and there were no birds.

Then she looked back. There was a potted, leafy plant on the table, blocking his face. “Aren’t you hungry?” she asked quietly, tiredly.

Mac blinked. Then he let out a rumbling chuckle, low and gentle, and pushed the plant a little out of the way. “What’s so funny?” she asked.

“It’s just,” he said, “that’s the first thing outta yer mouth?”

“... Yes?”

His smile revealed the significance of that statement. “Thank you for asking, Ink, but I’m fine.”

“Oh.” She looked down at her eggs, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Sorry… guess I was really hungry. This was really good, Mac.”

“‘S okay. I’m glad you liked it.”

She returned to eating, albeit slower, but for that moment, she felt a little warmer inside.

She finished her meal soon thereafter. Mac was still watching her. His smile was still there, but it was tired, too, as tired as she was. She just wanted to curl up somewhere nice and safe and sleep for a little while, and yet she knew whenever she closed her eyes she would see that night. Sleep would not come, then. Sleep would not come for a while. She wondered if there were bags under her eyes, if they were dark and visible and telling. She wondered if these were what Mac was watching now.

It was silent again. It did not seem those there would talk or speak or otherwise break the silence. Ink did not want to. Please, she begged. Please, let me have this moment. Let me be.

And, for that moment, it seemed that the universe listened; and thus obliged.

“No uncles?”

“No aunts, either. Mom was an only child. And Mumum and Papa were old.”

“And they…”

“Passed away a while back. Maybe three years after I was born.”

They were talking about family. It was a topic Ink had approached tentatively, but under the softness of Mac’s voice, she gradually allowed herself to open up about it.

“Must be a small family, then,” he said.

“Mmhmm.” She took a sip from her coffee mug. “For the most part, we only have close family friends as opposed to family members. I have godparents who live up in Vanhoover. I think they’re the closest, in terms of proximity.”

She tried not to show her apprehension. She knew the topic, and thus, the question, would inevitably come up. Mac would have to ask it eventually. She was just surprised it had taken him, or anyone, this long.

He nodded slowly. His hands had come undone from each other and he had placed them on the table in a relaxed state. It was 10:15. They had been in Ink’s home for an hour, the longest Mac had ever been.

“And…” He paused, and Ink knew he was about to ask that which she wished he wouldn’t but knew he must. “And… what about yer father?”

She put the cup down, searching for an easy way to put it. There was none. So she said, “He’s out of the picture.”

His face, blank, demonstrated he did not understand. She did not feel bothered by this. “He’s gone, Mac.”

“Gone? Y’mean, he left?”

“No… well, yes, but…”

“... Ink?”

Her voice had faltered and she had now resumed staring at her plate. Her thoughts strayed to her mother. What would she be eating? Could she eat? Somehow that subject had never come up in any of her conversations with the hospital staff. Did they have to insert a feeding tube down her throat? Did they have to use an IV bag? How could she eat, knowing her mother wasn’t?

“Ink.”

Mac’s voice brought her out of the storm. She sharply looked up and at him, and locked on to his green eyes. They steadied her. He reached a hand out and took hers in his, a simple gesture that meant more to her than anything else at that singular moment. And she found, deep in herself, a resolve; a resolve to be forthright and open with what she did mean.

So she said, “He’s dead, Mac.”

His hand did not move. His gaze did not shift. But his voice did waiver. “... dead?”

“Dead.”

“Oh.”

She almost smiled grimly at that “Oh.” It was so typical of people when she told them this. For what else could you say?

“He passed away a long time ago, when I was four. I don’t remember much of him, just a warm presence and a gentle smile. He was very sick, I think, even before I was born. Cancer took him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. But I’ve had time to move on, and so has mom. She… she took it the hardest, of course. But we’ve coped.”

She took another sip of her coffee. It was running dangerously low. “He had no siblings, either. His parents died after mom and he got married, and his parents were also from single-child families. Small family. No cousins, no godparents. Very private, you know?”

“Eeyup.”

She did not need to say anything further, for the conclusion had already been made. As of today, Ink had no living blood relatives. No one to come to her aid. No one to take care of her while her mother lay near the shores of oblivion in that hospital bed. She was, without a doubt, alone. And she did not need to say this, because it needed no saying, and she knew, too, that if she brought that conclusion to life with words, she would be broken.

So they sat there, quietly. The wind went away. All sounds did. Even their breathing became so subdued that it was buried beneath the silence itself.

In that silence, in this home, Ink found her memories. And that one, singular, terrible night stretched long into the arrow of time, where it would strike her heart for all eternity, where it would never be forgotten.

“I can’t stay here.”

She had whispered this, almost unconsciously. When it had left her lips it was like her soul had gone away. The warmth from before was gone. All was cold inside, growing colder still. Was she, too, dying? Was she, too, on the brink of perishing from forces beyond her control?

Mac gazed at her. Then, he slowly nodded.

“I just can’t.”

“I know.”

“This house, this home, it… I just…”

“I know, Ink.” He squeezed her hand. “I know.”

“Mac, I…” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know what to do… where to go. Or if there’s anywhere else to go for me. I…”

I what? For there was no answer she could give that could quench the undying thirst for comfort and peace she held. No answer that could be given that would hold her and hug her as a mother would and reassure her that things would be all right.

There was, at this moment, only herself, her home, and Macintosh Apple. And was the really enough?

“You could stay with us.”

He had spoken so softly that even in the silence she might have missed all that he had said. The words took their time, wounding themselves around her mind, until a flash of comprehension startled her. “W-what?”

He spoke without a trace of annoyance, of condescension; there was only sincerity. “Ah said you could stay with us.”

“Stay with… you?”

He nodded, smiling. “Eeyup. We could set you up ‘n the spare room. It’s real nice and comfy. And I’m sure my folks wouldn’t mind. Heck, I bet Granny Smith and Apple Bloom would be suggestin’ the same thing if they were here.”

“And Applejack?”

“She’ll understand.” He said this with such conviction that Ink found herself believing him.

Mac’s smile slowly began to slip off his face. “I mean… since you don’t got no other folks. And, well, I’m sure you could take care of yourself on your own, but… well, what I mean to say is… uh…”

He squinted his eyes and scratched the back of his head. “Shoot. Consarnit, how do I put this…”

“Mac,” she whispered.

“All I’m saying is, y’got folks who care about you. Folks who want to help. And with what’s happened… well, it ain’t right of me or anybody to leave you to your lonesome. And it ain’t right to see you wallow.”

He paused, searching her eyes. “I care too much about you t’ let that happen, y’hear?”

Some flame flickered in the recesses of Ink’s heart. It almost tickled.

His hand came away from hers. “But… it’s up t’ you. I ain’t gonna force you or anything. But just know that I’m here for you, Ink. And I always will be.”

He smiled again, and it was a small smile, but no less genuine.

He took her plate and went into the kitchen. She heard him turn on the faucet as he began to clean. Left alone at the table, she stared at her hand, where his had once been.

Slowly, she began to think.

Chapter Twenty-Six: I Called For You...

The phone that Ink had was an old model. It could only hold so many photos, and, more importantly, so many contacts. There were three empty spaces for new contacts left on her phone, and these she had habitually kept empty, for no other reason than “just in case.”

She had used one of those contacts to input Mac’s number. And she had used another to contact Nurse Golding.

Nurse Golding was of middle-age, blonde-haired and blue-eyed. She had had twins long ago who had moved on to college. She had been a nurse for several decades and had no plans of retiring soon. She had told Ink all of this over the course of the days, and though it was perhaps pointless information to know, it was a welcome divergence from the typical, cold pieces of knowledge the other nurses and doctors would grunt unto Ink. She had quickly become something of a friend within that hospital, and had given Ink her number so as to keep in contact and to monitor her mother’s condition.

It was this number that Ink called the day she left her home for what would be a very long time.

Upon the third ring, Nurse Golding picked up. “Good morning, Ink!” she said cheerfully. Ink wondered if that was a guise, a habit that all nurses—at least, the good ones—picked up in training.

“Good morning, Nurse Golding,” Ink replied, keeping that thought to herself. “How are you today?”

“Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Though I guess that’s because it’s Monday.”

“How so?”

“Nothing interesting happens on Monday.”

Like my mother waking up. Ink bit her lip. That thought would have to be dealt with later, preferably with extreme prejudice. “Yeah, well, you know what they say. After Monday and Tuesday, even the calendar goes ‘WTF.’”

Nurse Golding’s laugh echoed electronically through the speaker, and Ink couldn’t help but smile a little. “Ah, Monday humor. Classic.”

Ink waited a moment to compose herself, before she asked the main question on her mind. “How’s my mother doing?”

“She’s doing fine,” Nurse Golding said. “She trembles less in her sleep. I think she was just cold, so we gave her a specialized, electric-heated blanket. It’s like a little cloud on her bed, just for her.”

“That’s good to hear. Is she… awake?”

“I’m sorry, Ink, but not yet. The doctor says that they’ll have to keep her in an induced comatose state for the time being—”

Ink nearly dropped her phone. “What?! They’re extending the coma?”

“Yes, but it’s for a good reason! They want to bring down the swelling of her brain.”

Ink gulped. “Oh. So…”

“So what we’re trying to do is minimize, healthily mind you, the amount of electrical activity as best we can, so that the medicine can work unhindered. Don’t worry, though!” she added, a bit unnecessarily. “The procedure is completely painless and harmless to the patient. Your mom will be fine.”

Will be fine. If only Ink could fully believe that. She tried to sound cheerful in response. “That’s… reassuring to hear. Thank you, Nurse Golding.”

They talked a little more, and then the nurse had to hang up. The phone beeped once, before it sent Ink back to the default home screen. She pocketed it.

Mac’s truck jostled as they hit a slight bump, and he let out a somewhat annoyed grunt. “When are they gonna fix that darn pothole?” he muttered. He glanced over at Ink. “Everything okay?”

“I guess,” she admitted. “I don’t really know.”

“Some would say no news is good news.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

He reached over and placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing her slightly. “Yer mom’s a strong woman, Ink. She’ll get through this.”

I want to believe that. Ink said nothing. Mac brought his hand back to the wheel.

They passed the familiar welcoming grove of trees, the orchard patch still barren and cold, and then they had entered Sweet Apple Acres. The little farmhouse was a familiar sight, standing proudly in the rapidly shortening distance. Mac drove the truck into the gravel driveway and put it in park, turning off the engine afterwards. He came out of the truck and went around to Ink’s side and opened the door and helped her out. Then he came around the back and popped the cargo hatch, where he took out Ink’s bags and began rolling them towards the home, Ink trailing slowly behind.

She had never had to pack so much, but then again, she had never had to effectively move homes in her life. She had grown up in Canterlot all of her life, and any vacation that she and her mother had taken had required only one, small bag of luggage in which they would place both of their sets of clothing. Mac was rolling two large suitcases, each filled with clothes for at least two seasons: winter and spring. There was no telling how long she would stay at the Apples, but it was better to be safe than sorry—overpacking be hanged.

The suitcases swiveled in the wet, snowy deluge before they came to a stop in front of the house. As Ink reached Mac, the door opened, revealing Granny Smith, who wore a terribly morose frown. No words were said. She simply nodded and opened the door more, allowing Mac and Ink to take the bags and go inside.

It was warm there. There was a fire going, smoke billowing up and out the chimney. They had not taken down all of the Christmas decorations so there lay littered about tinsel and unplugged lights. The radio was softly playing a nameless song.

As Granny Smith closed the door behind them, Ink heard some light stomping. A moment later, Apple Bloom emerged. She appeared to have just gotten up; she was still in her light-blue jammies. Her eyes widened at what she saw. “Ink?”

Ink tried to force a smile, but it felt shaky. “Mac?” Apple Bloom said. “What’s going on?”

“Ah… Ink’s gonna be stayin’ with us for a little while,” he said, straightening his back.

“Oh. Okay.” Apple Bloom seemed about to say more, but apparently thought better of it. “Um, so I guess you’ll be takin’ the spare room upstairs?”

“That seems to be the case,” Ink said.

“Here. Lemme help.”

“Oh, no, it’s okay, I can take—”

Apple Bloom took one of the suitcases before Ink could stop her, and she began pulling it and herself towards the stairs.

Mac grunted. “Don’t worry too much for her, Ink. Bloom’s strong in her own right.”

“You must be hungry, dear,” Granny Smith said. “Would you like me to cook you anything in particular? I’ve got pancakes on the stove already.”

Ink could smell the pancakes, too. Her stomach growled a little. “I’ll let you know,” she said.

Mac took the other bag and he and Ink walked to the stairs. Apple Bloom was at the top and was dragging her share to an unseen room. Ink stepped forward and began to climb, with Mac trailing behind her, the suitcase making thuds every step.

They reached the top and turned left, going down a short hallway. Apple Bloom had gone on ahead into a small compartment area down there. They all followed, and soon they had entered the spare room.

“Well, here it is,” Apple Bloom said.

It was a small, barren area, smaller than Ink’s bedroom, with naught a bed to be found. A single rug lay on the floor. The only piece of furniture was a dresser, old and wooden, that looked like it hadn’t been opened in years. Next to it was a shuttered closet door. On the front wall was a window, revealing the orchard patch on the northern side of the home. From there she could see the strangely shaped tree that she and the rest of the Apple family had gathered around at Christmas. A memory of a far happier time…

“Here, lemme—” Mac walked over to the closet and opened it, and he then pulled out a large air mattress. He unfolded it and set about spreading it over the rug. “It, ah, ain’t much, but—”

“It’s fine, Mac,” Ink said.

“Um, I’ll go find ya a spare pillow,” Apple Bloom said, and left the two of them alone.

Mac plugged in the air mattress. The low humming as it filled was the only sound made. They stood and watched it, for a little while, before deciding to unpack. They unzipped Ink’s luggage and put the clothes in the old dresser. It was slow work. And quiet, too. All the talking that they had done earlier, for it all of it to suddenly fade away… it made Ink feel strange. Disconcerted, in a way.

She shook her head. Now wasn’t the time for that.

“Hey.”

Ink turned. Standing in the open doorway, leaning against the frame, was Applejack, dressed in her usual clothes, albeit with a winter theme in mind. She came off the frame and walked forward, approaching Ink. In a fluid motion, she wrapped her arms around the lilac-skinned girl and drew her in for a hug.

“Hey, girl,” Applejack murmured. “How’re ya holding up?”

“I’m okay,” Ink said. It was a lie and they both knew it, but Applejack didn’t seem intent on pursuing the lie.

“You’ll be staying with us, then.”

“Yes. I hope that’s not a problem.”

“ ‘Course it ain’t, girl. I bet Mac already gave you the whole spiel about how it’s the right thing to do.”

At that, Ink managed a tiny giggle. Mac harrumphed, though he didn’t seem too displeased by Applejack’s teasing.

Applejack stepped away from Ink, and she glanced around at the room. “Sorry ‘bout the space, there, Ink. If y’want, we can try an’ spruce it up a bit. Got a few festive rugs here and there—”

“No, it’s fine, Applejack,” Ink said, her hand coming up in a neutral manner. “Really. I don’t need much. Taking me in is generous enough as it is.”

Applejack chuckled. “Generous, huh? Guess Rarity’s starting to rub off on me.”

They heard Apple Bloom coming back, and saw a fluffy pillow in her arms. She beamed at the three of them before settling the pillow on the now-fully inflated bed. “There ya go!” she exclaimed, putting her hands on her hips. “I gotcha the comfiest pillow in all the house! Well, ‘sides mine, of course.”

Ink couldn’t help but smile a little. “Thank you, Apple Bloom. Really.”

The two other girls nodded, and then began walking away. “Come join us for breakfast, why don’tcha?” Applejack called over her shoulder as she left.

Ink caught herself about to wave goodbye. It was an action that would not go unnoticed by Big Mac. He offered a chuckle as she lit up. “Ya ain’t leaving just yet, I hope,” he said as he, too, walked out.

He turned at the last second and flashed Ink a smile, of the same variety that he had flashed back at her house. “Welcome to our home, Ink.”

Welcome, indeed.

It was night, now. Night and dark. There was music playing again throughout the house, but this Ink easily and willingly ignored. Like memories undone. Or lives lost in forever. Gone, gone, not to be returned, not to be wanted. Push back against that endless tide and wish for nothing but nothing itself.

The hours had passed into that nothing, too; passed without her noticing. The time after breakfast seemed like a blur of mixed conversation and muted feelings. She recalled barely helping out around the house, cleaning and sweeping, trying to do everything she could to make up for her sudden intrusion upon their lives. If that had meant anything, it was lost. It was as if she suddenly jumped forward in time, from helping out to sitting on the inflatable bed.

She couldn’t even recall taking out her phone. She was scrolling through it, looking for maybe a message from Nurse Golding she might have missed. She looked through her text messages and found nothing left unread. Her heart stopped on the last conversation she had had with her mother, and then she was scrolling again, past and quickly, moving further from it, hitting the end, the barrier, pushing still, pushing it away.

The moonbeams drifted through the window and lounged across her legs. She stared out. The moon was full. The stars were out, too. The sky was the same as ever. Had nothing changed there?

“Hrgh!”

“Mm? Mac? That you?”

“Eeyup.”

Ink turned over to look at the door. She blinked slowly. “What are you doing lugging that desk around for?”

“Ergh!” He put the desk down for a moment, glancing over at her. In the darkness of the room she couldn’t see much of his face or what he wore, but what stood continuously out were the emeralds of his eyes. “Just, ah…”

Here he paused, rubbing the nape of his neck, looking away. Ink stared at him, intrigued. “Well?” she said.

“It was a thought,” he murmured.

“We’ve been having a lot of those as of late.”

His laugh lit up the room for a split second. “Well, I was hoping it’d be a good one, too.”

“Okay?”

He grabbed the desk again and walked into the room. He headed past Ink and towards the window. He placed the desk there, then went over to the door again and came back moments later with a matching chair. Throughout, Ink watched him.

“It’s for your writing,” he said once he had finished. She sat up a little at that. “I don’t know much about yer habits or whatnot, but I figure if you have a comfortable place to set your laptop and stuff up, you’ll be able to write.”

“Oh.”

He turned to her, and even in the darkness, she knew he was frowning. “That’s… not pushing too much, is it?”

“Oh, no!” She shook her head. “It’s just… well, I haven’t thought about writing in some time.”

He nodded. He understood, she figured, and that was that.

She slipped out of the bed and walked over to the desk and chair to inspect them. Her laptop was with the rest of her belongings, tossed carelessly to the side of the bed. Perhaps tomorrow she would put it there and get to work. Perhaps tomorrow she would continue.

“It’s lovely, Mac,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. She was thinking, now, thinking like she was flying, flying above the clouds and moon and stars. Distant but still close enough to the world to see his little smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, Ink,” he said.

They hugged, wishing each other good night, before Mac slipped out of her arms and into the kind comforts of his own room, where he would turn out the light in a moment and lumber off to the Sandman’s realm. Yet as he left and once he was gone, Ink gripped her arms to herself. She felt like she was missing something.

She glanced outside once more, then down at the desk, where the moonbeams glided across.

She went to bed after that, in a home that wasn’t really hers.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: ... In The Little Moments

This is how the days passed, then.

Ink would wake up in her bed, but it wasn’t really her bed. She would look around at the room she was in and not think it familiar. Then she would realize it actually was familiar and she would smell breakfast being put on and she would remember she was at the Apple’s farm. She would get up and go through the motions of waking up and going about her day.

She would come downstairs and she would eat what Granny Smith prepared and she would do so mostly in silence. It was a silence that was not meant to last. Her first day she was quiet, but on the second day, Apple Bloom managed to break her silence and soon she was smiling and laughing just as much as the others. This would be her mornings, for the most part.

Then she would help clean up even though Granny insisted that she not. But Ink needed things to do and dishwashing, while menial, was a welcome distraction.

What she did after varied. On Tuesday, she went up to her room again and sat down at the desk that Big Mac had brought her. She stared out at the fields. In the distance she saw hills gently rising and lowering, all covered in snow.

She brought out her laptop and placed it on the desk and booted it up, but after that she could only stare at the screen. She didn’t even bother logging in. She must have stayed there for a while, staring at it, even as the screen went black. Her hands were in her lap. Neutral.

Eventually she let out a sigh, and turned off her laptop.

She did the same thing on Wednesday.

The New Year came and went without much incident. The Apples encouraged Ink to at least stay up long enough to watch the ball drop, and after that she had gone to bed without saying much else beyond a “Happy New Year.” So it was that the 1st of January came to her, almost like a dream. She woke up that day, looked outside, expecting to see something different, but no, it was still white and all was cold and she was still in this home that wasn’t hers and her mother was still in the hospital and she would be there for an unknown amount of time and Ink not knowing would never change and how could it, she thought belatedly, how could it because it did not care for whatever Ink thought?

The 1st of January, therefore, became like every other day before it, and Ink’s actions became repetitive, routine, worthless. She wasn’t even sure she was ever really doing them. And whatever conversations might have passed between herself and the other Apples there faded into memory, and then, faded further even still.

Until Friday.

On that day, after breakfast, Ink called Nurse Golding again. There was nothing new to report. Glory Quill remained in the same state, silent, comatose, near-unresponsive. Ink nodded carefully, thanked the nurse, then hung up. She hoped that her tears weren’t showing.

She went upstairs and changed into another set of clothes. She went into the bathroom stared at herself in the mirror. Once again she was reminded of how much she had changed. Hair, longer. Skin, paler. Eyes, losing their color, their vibrancy—or were they simply playing tricks on her?

“Ink?”

“Hmm?”

Ink whirled around. “Apple Bloom? What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’. Just wonderin’ if you’d finished up yet.”

“Oh, not yet, sorry.”

“It’s okay. Mind if I scooch in with ya?”

“Go right ahead. It’s your home.”

Ink winced. She’d sounded unintentionally cold there, and hoped Apple Bloom hadn’t noticed.

The young girl was still dressed in her pajamas. She was not wearing her bow and her hair was a bit unruly. Both girls squeezed their respective toothpastes on their respective toothbrushes and began brushing.

Ink felt… well, what did she feel? Here she was, casually brushing her teeth beside a petite and adorable young country girl, who had so quickly grown accustomed to her presence that she had been the one to suggest that they brush together. It was odd, and yet, for some reason, was also perfectly natural.

When they had finished, Apple Bloom let out a little hum. “Y’know something, Ink?” she said.

“What, Apple Bloom?”

“Me and Applejack used to do this a lot.”

“Brush your teeth together?”

“Eeyup. We only had this one sink, this one bathroom. Sometimes it was just faster t’ not wait for someone else to finish.”

“Really? That sounds nice.”

“Yeah… but then we just stopped.”

“Why?”

“Dunno,” Apple Bloom said with a shrug. “I guess we just kinda outgrew it.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I kinda miss those days. What about you? You ever do this before?”

“No. I don’t have any siblings.”

“Really?”

And that started a conversation about Ink’s family. Somehow, the conversation was far nicer and less morose than the one she had had with Mac days earlier. Maybe it was because of Apple Bloom’s childlike curiosity, so innocent and eager to simply learn, and perhaps that tickled Ink in ways Mac simply could not. She found herself smiling as Apple Bloom extolled on her the terrible vices that came with siblinghood.

“I mean, just because I’m the youngest in the family doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing,” the young girl said, a brush in her hand. “Sure, I’m not as big as Big Mac or as Applejack, but that don’t mean I’m just another kid, y’know?”

“It does sound a little annoying, sure.”

“Tell me about it! I swear, I think they still think I’m just another tyke. Big Mac’s the worst offender of that!”

“Ah heard that!” the “worst offender” called from downstairs.

“I hope you did!”

Ink giggled. “I’m sure they aren’t all that bad.”

“Naw, they aren’t. I love them just the same, y’know?” Apple Bloom glanced up at Ink. “In fact… I bet you do know, don’t you?”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” But the girl would not answer.

They went back to fixing themselves up, but Ink was quick to notice Apple Bloom struggling with her hair. “Consarnit!” she squeaked. “Can’t ever get this stupid thing to move right…”

“Hey, careful. You don’t want to pull out your roots.”

“But—gah! It’s just so stubborn!”

“It fits the owner.” Ink laughed. “Here, let me help.”

“Huh? Oh…”

Ink took the brush and began to softly comb through Apple Bloom’s hair. “There. You gotta be gentle with it, especially if it’s morning-hair like this.”

“Uh huh.”

“Don’t want to hurt it. You have to take care of your hair now, or else you’ll start losing it well before you should. And now, you just—”

“Oh, I see!”

The young girl’s hair had now gone back to its usual style, though it was not completely straight—a bit of stylistic interpretation on Ink’s part. Ink stepped back, holding the brush. “Well? How does that look?”

“It looks great, Ink!” Apple Bloom exclaimed. She twirled around, peering at herself from every angle. “Ah swear, yer like a natural stylist or somethin’. Applejack can’t ever get it right, and I doubt she’d hold a candle up to what you just did! Where’d you learn all that?”

“Oh, it was nothing. And I learned it from… my mother.”

Apple Bloom stopped twirling. She faced Ink, face suddenly somber. “Oh. I didn’t mean…”

Ink placed a hand on the younger girl’s shoulder. “No, it’s all right. I just…” She sucked in a breath. “It just hurts, you know? It hurts a lot.”

Apple Bloom said nothing. Instead, she dove into Ink and hugged her, tightly. And Ink hugged her back.

It was perfectly natural.

For some reason, Apple Bloom would not leave Ink’s side for the rest of the day. Not that Ink minded. The young girl was vibrant company, and the sad moment from before was quickly forgotten, thanks in no small part to Bloom’s curiosity.

“So you’re writing a book?” she asked. They were in Ink’s room, standing by the desk, the laptop still unopened.

Ink looked over there. “Trying to, anyway. It’s a lot of work.”

“I’m sure. So I guess that means you read a lot?”

“I try to. You know what they say—”

“What do they say?”

“There are only two things you must do to be a writer: read a lot, and write a lot.” Ink smirked a little. She had told Artifex this once, and he had confessed that he wasn’t much of a reader.

Apple Bloom nodded. She put her hands behind her back and rocked back-and-forth on her toes. “Well… then what’s your favorite book?”

“Of all time?”

“‘Course all time! Why would I ask what’s your favorite book for this week?”

Ink giggled. Then she put a finger to her chin. “Well… to be honest, I’m not sure. I’ve read so many, it’s hard to choose. Like picking your favorite family member.”

“Winona.”

“Who?”

“That’s our dog. She’s probably outside playin’ with Big Mac in the snow.”

They looked out the window that was in Ink’s room and saw him playing with a brown, furry blur. “Guess that’s her,” Ink said. “Huh. I didn’t know you guys had a dog.”

“Had her for some years—hey!” She pointed a finger at Ink. “Don’t try an’ change the subject!”

“I didn’t. That was all you.”

“... Yeah, well… don’t change the subject anyway!”

Ink laughed and patted the top of Apple Bloom’s head. “Are you sure you don’t cause trouble for your family?”

“Only as much as is to be expected.”

“Mmhmm. Well, let me think…” Ink tapped her chin. “I can’t tell you what my favorite book is, but I can tell you who my favorite author is. Maybe you’ve heard of him. He goes by… well, it’s a little funny, his name.”

“What is it?”

“Prose.”

“Wow. Talk about having yer life cut out fer ya. But I don’t think I’ve heard of him.”

“Really? He’s pretty famous. I think Rarity has read a lot of his books.”

“Well, that explains it. Any book Rarity likes, well, generally Applejack don’t, and I read what Applejack reads. Mostly.”

“Then you’re missing out!” Ink soldiered past Apple Bloom and headed for her backpack. “Here, I think I actually have a copy of one of his books in here…”

“Huh? Why would I care about some friffy romance novel?”

“So you have heard of what he writes?”

“Maybe once or twice, but still—”

“It’s not all about romance,” Ink said. She reached into her backpack and began shuffling around. “I mean, sure, the romance is there, and it’s a component of a lot of what he writes, but it’s not the main thing there.”

“What d’ya mean?”

“I mean, the romance isn’t what makes his books so good. Though, Rarity would probably argue otherwise, but let’s just ignore that—ah! Here we go!”

A green tome emerged from her bag. Its spine was bent from repeated page-turning, its cover wrinkled, its pages rumpled from dog-earing bookmarks. In embroidered golden lettering was its title: Storm Song.

Ink stood up. She turned around, book in hand, facing Apple Bloom. “See, here’s the thing about great writing. It has layers. It’s more than just its genre. It speaks to the reader about a lot of things, things that the author finds interesting, or enlightening, or, better yet, true. And that’s what Prose does with his writing. He writes about the truth—the, uh, truth about people, as it were. He isn’t just writing about people falling in love. He’s writing about conflicts between people, the power of love and friendship, the remarkable destruction of tragedy sometimes, and a bunch of other things. It’s, ah…” Her voice trailed off. “It’s, well… it’s stuff that I want to write about.”

Apple Bloom reached out and took the book from her. She flipped it over and scanned the back summary. “Oh, wow. This is also a murder-mystery?”

“Mmhmm. A very good one, too. It’s actually the first in the series—”

Ink paused. She watched Apple Bloom as she opened the book and began to read. Soon she was flipping through the pages fervently, her lips following the words silently. Then, abruptly, she looked up at Ink. “Er… do you mind if… I mean, if it’s no problem…”

Ink smiled. “Sure, you can read it. Let me know what you think.”

Apple Bloom let out a uncharacteristically high-pitched squeal. “Oh, thank you thank you thank you! I promise I’ll take good care of it!”

She hugged Ink for the second time that day. And this time, it was for a much better reason.

Lunch passed. They had warm chicken noodle soup—“The best thing to have on a cold day,” Granny Smith said, which the others affirmed—and bread. Afterwards, the phone rang, and Granny Smith answered.

She hung up some minutes later. “That was Filthy Rich. Seems he wants to get started on his ‘New Year, New Deal’ partnership with us. Applejack, wanna come along and see how a real Apple negotiates?”

“Sure thing, Granny.”

“Apple Bloom?”

“Ew, no thanks. I don’t want t’ see Diamond Tiara that soon. I’ll just stay home.”

“Big Mac?”

Big Mac politely declined. He had some other things he had to do around the home. Applejack and Granny Smith grabbed their coats and keys and headed out. Apple Bloom went up to her room, likely to read Prose’s book, and Big Mac vanished somewhere else. Ink was left on her own.

She checked her phone. Artifex had texted her, saying how, if she wasn’t up to it, he would be willing to cancel their usual Saturday meetups. She sent him a quick text, saying that she’d like to try it still anyway. She scrolled through the other messages. There was one from Gaige, asking if she was all right, and one from Hazel, asking the same thing, all in the same group chat. She sent the same message to them both: “I’m doing okay.” It wasn’t a total lie, but not a total truth, either.

She paused, then added, “Though, I do miss you guys. Winter Break has been way too long.”

A message from Gaige read, “Yeah, well, that’s what Jarvy gets for dragging his story. We’ll see each other soon, I’m sure.”

Hazel: “Yeah, what Gaige said! Except, you know, for the first part.”

Ink managed a smile.

She spent some time in her room, mulling about. Occasionally she would look at her laptop and would be seized by the notion that she should open it, turn it on, get to work—and then the feeling would be gone and she would face it no more. Soon she was bored. She paced across her room, looking for something to do. She made her bed for the upteenth time. She rearranged the furniture, only to put everything back. She looked out her window and saw Big Mac outside, by the log pit, swinging an axe down repeatedly.

She watched him, and perhaps that tree out back watched her, carefully, too, staring back at her less like a mirror and more like a separate guardian entity. Maybe it was watching her because it felt she was a threat, or perhaps, more likely, it was curious as she was curious, and was watching her, waiting for her to do something.

It watched her watching him, and then it watched her leave the window entirely.

Big Mac swung. The wood was split down the middle and fell over again to the side. He picked up another log. He placed it on the stump. He swung. Again. The wood was split and fell. He picked up another log and swung and repeated this.

It was cold, but the work kept him warm. He took off his hat and felt the wind kiss his face. He smiled. It was cold, but it was the cold that kept you alive. He wiped his brow with his gloved hand and returned to the task. He swung. Wood split down. Over and over. Easy like that.

After the tenth log was split, he stopped and leaned on the end of the axe. The clouds were rolling across the sky, masking it in a grey veil. He looked to the log pile now. He saw that the pile was high again and there was now plenty of wood to be burned. If they had extra he figured he could give it to the neighbors or donate some logs to the school’s woodworking class. The Friendship Games were coming up. Perhaps they could use the extra material for practice, and if not for practice, then for the event itself.

He let out a breath. The air was cold, too. He wondered, absentmindedly, if he should have coffee or hot chocolate later. Bitter beverage or sweet delight? What would Granny Smith recommend?

Then he picked up the axe and went back to work. The time passed as the axe fell and the logs split. His arms heaved and soon his back was sore with effort. Still he kept working.

“That looks like fun.”

Mac stopped. He pushed a log that had caught on the stump off, and then leaned on the axe, glancing up. “Well, I wouldn’t call it that, Ink.”

She had dressed up again in her familiar, purple jacket. He noted flecks of snow stuck in her hair, quickly melting. Her cheeks were red from the cold. “Really?” she said. “And what would you call it?”

“Wood chopping,” he said. “Or work. Same difference.”

“Mm.”

Her arms were crossed. “What brings you out here?” Mac asked. “It’s warmer inside.”

“I got bored.”

“That so? Wanna take a swing at these logs, then?”

She stuck out her tongue. “I’m not that bored.”

Mac chuckled. “Was jus’ a suggestion, Ink.”

He pulled another log from the pile and placed it on the stump, readying the axe with his other hand.

“Hold on a minute,” Ink said, stopping him.

“Wuh?”

“Here.” She stretched out her arm. In it was a warm cup of what smelled of hot chocolate. He saw in her other hand was another cup, presumably of the same beverage.

He nodded graciously and took the cup from her, letting the axe drop to the snowy earth. He took a sip. “Say, is that… cinnamon? You remembered?”

She took a sip from her own cup. “Well, you were the one who introduced me to the idea, with coffee anyway…”

“Glad you liked it, Ink. Mighty glad.”

They were both quiet, then. Mac watched Ink carefully. She was looking out over the fields, her eyes distant and thinking. He wondered what about. Maybe about her novel. Or more likely her mother. His thoughts turned to Mrs. Quill, and he hoped in the silence of his heart that she would be all right.

And when she was all right, Ink would go to her, and then in time she would return home. And that was good, wasn’t it? Yes, it was good. It was the best good they could hope for.

And yet…

Mac didn’t allow himself that thought. It was selfish. She had been through so much, and he would be damned if his thoughts strayed beyond helping her. So he contented himself with hoping for the best for Ink.

He watched her for a moment longer, then turned his head and looked over where she looked, over the fields, and together they were both thinking.

“Um… Ink?”

Both of them turned at the sound of Apple Bloom’s voice. She had come through the snow, bundled up, and Mac saw a book in her hand—the book, he presumed correctly, that Ink had given her.

“What’s up, Apple Bloom?” the girl beside him said.

“It’s, ah… I’m just wondering if you could explain this passage to me.”

Apple Bloom walked up to Ink, the pages to the book open to face her. Ink scanned them. Then her eyes lit up like amethyst jewels. “Oh! Yes, this part is a little tricky, but if you think about it like this…”

Why hadn’t Mac noticed this before? Perhaps it was because he had not been privy to see this side of Ink. Perhaps it was a side that had never come out beforehand, a side that had not been revealed until circumstances demanded it. He drank his hot chocolate and leaned on his axe. Who would have thought Ink and Apple Bloom would have hit it off so well? Almost as though the two had grown up side by side, as sisters…

A smile, however conspicuous, worked its way across his tired face.

He had come inside and had showered and changed into cleaner, simple clothes when the doorbell rang. Ink and Apple Bloom were also inside, pooling over the book at the dining room table. They were busy, so he had gone to open the door.

Applejack and Granny Smith had not texted him, so he figured they weren’t back yet. Still, he wasn’t sure he wanted to open that door. The person behind it was furiously banging on the bell, like their life depended on it. “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled as he pulled on a sweater and came down the stairs, “I’m comin’, hold yer horses.”

“Someone’s impatient,” Ink remarked from the dining room.

“Yer telling me,” Mac said. “Ain’t the politest thing to do, banging that bell, but it is what it is.”

He stepped over to the door and undid the lock. “All right, you,” he said, pulling the door open, “what is it—”

He let out a strangled gasp as the door opened in its entirety. This brought Ink and Apple Bloom running into the foyer. “Mac?” Ink was quick to ask, coming to his side. “What’s wrong—”

Apple Bloom’s voice, suddenly filled with vehemence and anger, cut her off. “You!”

Ink turned to look at the person in the doorway, and saw no one familiar.

But the person smiled despite Apple Bloom’s sudden ferocity. “Well, at least I know I’m remembered.” She turned to Mac. “And what about you? Surely you remember me?”

It took a while for Mac to find his voice, but when he did, it came out just as strangled as his gasp.

“Sugar Belle?”

Chapter Twenty-Eight: ... And Change Came

Ink was running late. The distant chiming of the city clock that followed every hour reminded her of that. But she made no move to rush, and in fact, no move or indication that she had even heard it.

She stepped lightly through piles of snow that were still gathered at street corners, moving with the crowd, another bystander come to view the city’s morning lights, as inconspicuous as the rest of them. She stopped at the edge of the sidewalk as the crowd slowed. Trucks blared past, pushing through sludge and wet muck, and cars followed in their wake. The light turned from a red hand to a white stick figure, and the crowd began to move, and Ink along with it.

Vaguely she recalled the path she had to take, but it seemed almost like a distant isle in her mind, just close enough that she could see the shore, but not close enough that she could make out the exact details. Street sign names blended together. Once or twice she had to stop to gather her bearings, and even then, she did so slowly. The city clock reminded her once again of her tardiness, but her legs did not heed the call. She would arrive when she arrived, no matter how inconvenient.

Finally, after a swirling spell of mild confusion and mistaking a boulevard for an avenue, she finally arrived in front of Sugarcube Corner. She paused to look up at it. There had been some changes to the front. The cupcake decoration had changed color, now orange instead of pink. The Christmas lights were still present; she supposed that was fine, since it was barely a week after Christmas. Barely a week after…

She let out a sigh, breath coming out frosty. Then she stepped through the double glass doors.

Music was drifting through the air in soft, melodic beats—acoustic, jazz, a combination of the two—a surprise for the little bakery which was known more for playing loud pop when the radio was on. Ink paused only a moment to register the change. She looked around, scanning the tables, and saw several familiar faces among them—some of whom had been at the hospital for their own reasons. None turned to face her. They all were in their own little world, a world made of cups of coffee and hot chocolate and pastries—warm distractions, for sure.

She walked until she spotted a familiar booth. It was there that she saw Artifex. His cane was nearby. Beside him, though, sat Adagio, dressed in a lavender wool sweater—a gift from the boy, perhaps?

Both looked up when she approached, and both smiled at her. She simply nodded to the two of them, then sat down, scooting into the middle of the booth.

“Sorry I’m late,” Ink said quietly. Her hands settled in her lap.

Artifex sipped from his cup, eyes closing for a moment, before lowering it. “It’s fine, Ink. I hope you don’t mind the increase in present company, though.”

“Of course I don’t. Morning, Adagio. That’s a nice sweater.”

“Good morning, Ink. Yes, it is very nice. Sometimes Sonata has good taste.”

So it was her sister who had gotten it. Ink nodded.

Then Pinkie came by, or rather, bounced over to them, as enthusiastic as ever. When she saw Ink, she noticeably mellowed out, but maintained a happy smile. “Inky! So good to see you!” She leaned in and squeezed the girl hard.

“Ah! Y-yes, nice to see you, too, Pinkie,” Ink managed to gasp out.

“What can I get you? The usual?”

“Yes, please. And this time I’m paying for it,” she added, shooting Artifex a glance. He raised his hands in mock surrender.

“Okie dokie lokie! And what about you two lovebirds?” she addressed the couple. The boy blushed, while Adagio giggled. “Need anything else? Maybe a private booth?”

“Pinkie,” Artifex warned. His face reddened. Adagio’s giggle became a cackle.

“Oh, you silly boy,” she murmured into his ear. He blushed even harder as Pinkie laughed. Even Ink managed a tiny chuckle.

“Is this woman too much for you?” Adagio said as Pinkie walked away.

“Sometimes,” Artifex said to Ink. He got a light punch from his girlfriend in return.

Girlfriend.

While the two bantered, Ink turned that word over in her mind. Somehow, it was still hard to believe. This boy who seldom spoke but who, when he did, spoke with incredible wisdom and guidance, and this girl, a former villain, flirty, catty, and still a bit sinister… how had they ever ended up together? And wasn’t it true that the two had started off, to put it nicely, on the wrong foot? Remarkable, still, was that Adagio had become quite friendly with Artifex’s friend group, most of which had been responsible for her and her sisters’ downfall. Sunset in particular had become Adagio’s closest girl friend, outside of her own family, of course.

Artifex and Adagio. The ex-Chronicler and the ex-Siren. Different in their own ways, and yet, now that she viewed them together, she could see why they were together. Pieces of the same puzzle, come together for the full picture. She smiled a little.

Pinkie came back with the usual. Ink thanked her and took a sip. It was good and warm, and yet she found herself missing the pinch of cinnamon.

The couple’s banter died down, and both turned to regard her with careful stares. It seemed their attitude had changed. Dwindled, perhaps, in optimism, but carefully masked with their smiles. “So,” Adagio began, “how are things, Ink?”

She knew what she was asking, but Ink nonetheless waited a moment to answer. She drummed her fingers on the table, thinking about what to say. I guess I should talk about the most obvious thing…

“I’m living with the Apples,” she said. “Big Mac invited me.”

“Is that so?” Artifex asked, tilting his head. “Well, that’s very nice of him, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah,” Ink replied with a nod. “I, uh, moved in a few days ago. It was a little jarring at first, but I think I’ve gotten used to it. Big Mac will be driving me to school along with Apple Bloom and Applejack in the morning, once school starts, of course.”

“Good. The bus isn’t worth the ride.”

“Artifex, you’ve not even ridden the bus,” Adagio pointed out.

“I aim not to. You either drive yourself, get driven, or walk.”

“Get driven by a taxi?”

“The only way to travel.”

“If you don’t believe in boats and planes.”

“Or bicycles,” Ink inputted.

Artifex rolled his eyes. “Kick a man while he’s down, why don’t you?”

“You’re not down, you’re just saying taxis are better than planes.”

“So you and Mac have been spending a lot of time together,” Adagio said before Artifex could retort. “How’s that been?”

“What do you mean?” Ink said. “It’s… well, it’s nice, and all. You know.”

“I suppose I do.” She glanced at Artifex, then winked. “In some ways.”

Ink pushed on. “It’s nice, really. He’s been really nice to me. Taking me in, cooking me breakfast—”

“He did what?” Artifex said with a faux-gasp.

“Yes, and he cooks a mean omelette, too.” Ink giggled. “And his family is really nice, you know. Especially Apple Bloom. Gosh, she’s such a sweetheart.”

“I’ve seen her around,” Adagio said. “And she’s not alone. She and her Crusader friends have been having some not-so-secret admirers.”

“No!” Ink leaned forward.

Artifex also glanced at his girlfriend. “Really? I thought those boys were just really good friends with them…”

“You mean like how Sonata and you are good friends? I don’t think so. That Tender Taps boy, for example.” Adagio shrugged, grinning. “I’ve seen the way he glances at Apple Bloom. He’s wearing his heart on his sleeve, and she doesn’t even know!”

“It’s probably good she doesn’t,” Ink said. “Because then she’d tell Applejack, and then Applejack would scare off Tender.”

“Apples are hard to love,” Artifex said. “Which might explain why Applejack doesn’t have a boyfriend. And isn’t interested in one at the moment.”

“Have you forgotten that boy at Treble’s party?” Adagio said. “I think she’s starting to see the light. And besides… not all Apples, it seems, are hard to love.”

“Oh, you’re right.”

Both of them turned to Ink, their smiles teasing. Ink looked at the two of them. She blinked. Then she leaned back and sighed. “Oh, ha, ha, you two. Listen. It’s not like that, really.”

“Really? But you were speaking so highly of him just now,” Adagio said.

“You haven’t spoken so highly of anyone else,” Artifex added. “Not to mention the fact that the two of you are living together, essentially.”

Ink blushed a furious red. “S-So? That doesn’t mean anything!”

“It means as much as you want it to mean,” Adagio countered. “Admit it, Ink. You like him.”

Instantly, Ink had flashbacks to that Christmas night, to what Applejack said, and then to that moment afterwards, between herself and Mac; and then, further into that memory still, the two of them on the porch, and she recalled, her face so red it hurt, how close they had gotten.

“Th-that doesn’t matter!” she exclaimed. “B-besides, Mac’s already got a girlfriend…”

The silence was monumental. And it lasted all of three seconds.

“He what?!”

That was Artifex. That was Artifex? Ink glanced at the boy, who was currently standing over the table, hands slammed down on the surface. Adagio touched his hand. He looked down, realized what he was doing, then slowly returned to his seat.

“Yeah,” Ink said a bit shakily. “Well, it’s more like an old girlfriend… actually, I’m not even sure it’s official.”

“We’re missing some context. Ink, what do you mean, he’s got a girlfriend?” Adagio asked. “I thought he was single!”

Ink’s hands came together. “He was, until yesterday…”

“Sugar Belle?”

She looked a bit like Pinkie, with the same skin color, or at least a close shade of it, but her hair was a puffier wine-purple with cerulean hair bands tying up the ends. When she nodded, these bounced. Magenta eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled at Big Mac. “Hello, big boy.”

Big boy? Ink stared out the girl, recalling immediately all that Applejack had said of her. Her fists clenched. She hid them behind her back. What is she doing here?

Ink could practically hear Apple Bloom’s anger billowing out of her, and she stepped a little in front of the young girl so as to prevent her from doing something she might regret. Mac, meanwhile, stood still, mouth agape and hands slipping off of the doorknob.

Sugar Belle tilted her head, flashing a dazzling smile. “Well? Can I come in? It’s quite cold out, you know.”

“Oh! Er—” Mac stepped awkwardly back, nearly pushing Ink away. “S-sure, Ah mean… yeah, it’s a bit cold, and—just—come in, eeyup…”

Sugar Belle did. Knee-high snow boots matched in color the shade of her teal down coat, all of which were wet with snow. As Mac closed the door behind her, she proceeded to slowly take off her coat and boots—it was almost as if she was purposely taking her time. Underneath she wore a sleeveless, faded-pink sweater that, in Ink’s honest opinion, hugged a little too tightly to her figure. Black yoga pants finished her outfit, and Ink was of the same opinion of them.

The air felt oddly heavy.

Sugar Belle let out a little sigh. “Wow. It has been so long since I’ve been in here, hasn’t it? I’m glad to see it’s barely changed. Just as charmingly rustic as ever.” She held her coat and boots in her hand, looking around at the home.

“Er, yeah…” Big Mac rubbed the back of his head. Then, as if pushed from behind, he seized the clothing Sugar held and hung the coat on the coat rack and placed the boots in the corner. “We, ah, don’t change too much, y’know?”

“I know,” Sugar Belle said, once again flashing a smile in his direction. Ink noticed Mac’s face turning redder and redder.

Then Sugar Belle turned around and saw Ink. Her eyes widened in surprise, and her smile fell just a little. “Oh? I’m sorry, Mac, I didn’t know you had a visitor.”

“It’s no bother!” Mac was quick to say, but he turned to Ink and asked, “Ain’t that right?”

“Er, right… No bother.” Ink stepped away from Apple Bloom (who was still seething in silence) and held out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Ink Quill.”

“Sugar Belle. Charmed.” The other girl took her hand lightly, looking her up and down. Ink suddenly felt enormously self-conscious. Suddenly her periwinkle sweater and indigo pants seemed unfitting, poor in comparison. Sugar Belle tilted her head, revealing yet another facet of her attire: a pair of golden earrings in the shape of slices of pie. Ink resisted the urge to cover her bare ears.

Sugar Belle looked first at Ink, then back at Mac. She was smiling full again, but there was something hidden in there. “Mac? I didn’t know you had taken up dating again.”

Both the boy and the girl blushed. “That’s not—we—” Ink stuttered.

“We’re just friends,” Mac said. And while Ink was quick to vocally agree, she felt something in her chest flare up. Even Mac looked as if saying that had caused physical harm.

Sugar Belle, on the other hand, seemed to relax at their affirmation. “Really?” she said. “I thought that your sister wouldn’t have allowed just any girl over.”

“I’m not just any girl,” Ink murmured. She was ignored.

“Ink’s a good friend,” Mac said, stepping forward. “And it ain’t Applejack’s business who I let come over—”

His voice trailed, and he stopped as of struck by something. Ink saw Sugar Belle smirk. “Oh? You’ve finally noticed, haven’t you? I’m wearing your favorite…”

It was then that Ink realized why the air felt heavy. A scent was lingering, a nice one: perfume. And judging by the look in Mac’s eyes, he not only recognized it, he was smitten by it.

And it was then that Apple Bloom finally broke her silence. She stomped past Ink, hands in fists. Her eyes flashed dangerously. “What the hell are y’doing back here?!” she shouted.

Sugar Belle appeared at a loss for words, one hand covering her mouth, but Mac was quick to come to her aid. “Apple Bloom!” He glared down at his sister, who shrunk under his gaze. “That ain’t how you talk to a guest! Apologize!”

“But, Mac—”

“Ah said apologize!”

“Mac, she don’t belong here!”

“Apple Bloom, I’m warning you—”

“No! Not until she does! After what she did—”

Her words caught in her throat. Mac had gone silent, bearing a shocked expression, as did Ink. Only Sugar Belle appeared unaffected.

There was a period of silence and heavy breathing. Then Apple Bloom shook her head, disgusted. “I’m going to mah room,” she murmured.

She turned around and stomped away, and made no effort to hide her displeasure. A few minutes later, they all heard the sound of a door being slammed.

Big Mac turned to Sugar Belle. His shoulders noticeably drooped. “I’m sorry ‘bout that, Sugar Belle,” he said quietly. “Apple Bloom should know better—”

“There’s no need to apologize, Big Mac,” she interrupted, raising a hand. “I’m sure she’s just stressed out. That’s all. And… she has a point.”

She stepped forward, the hand coming out and landing on Mac’s cheek. Her voice lowered to a breathless murmur. “I’ve made mistakes, Mac. Plenty, I’m sure. But I want to atone for them. Make up for them. Make it up to you.”

“Sugar Belle…”

“Could you ever forgive me, Mac? Let me try again? I promise I’ll do better this time.”

“Sugar, I…”

And then she had laced both hands around his neck and was pressing up against him, holding him close, keeping his gaze locked onto hers. They were both silent. Waiting. For what?

Sugar Belle didn’t glance at Ink as she said, “Would you give us a moment alone, dear? I think Mac and I need it.”

“Oh, um… sure.” Ink nodded. She felt her face. Hot, flushed. “Y-yeah. Yeah, I’ll… leave you two alone.”

But she didn’t move. Not at first. Her legs were locked in place, her hands clenched so tightly together they were turning white. Move, damn it! Why can’t I move?

Mac’s voice came from afar. He sounded out of focus. “Ink?”

“Yeah, I know—” She knew she was going to say more, and yet her voice died away. Her legs finally unlocked themselves. Freed from her paralysis, she turned and walked off, leaving the two alone in the foyer.

They were quiet in the booth. The other patrons had cleared out and now it was just them and the sounds of the bakery and the music playing. Ink’s drink had cooled. She glanced down at it, but felt no urge to drink it.

Opposite of her were two different reactions. Artifex, in silence, had descended into a furious stupor. His brow had furrowed, eyes narrowed. His hands were noticeably clenching, and his lips were twisted into a terrible grimace, like he had digested something awful. Adagio, on the other hand, peered at Ink with concerned eyes, her mouth slightly open. Her hands were in her lap, and she was leaning over the table, looking at Ink with those eyes, words dangling from her lips but never falling, never forming.

“... that was yesterday,” Ink said softly, not daring to meet the gaze of the two who sat in front of her. “I haven’t seen them since.”

“Why?” Adagio asked.

“When… when I came back, they were gone. I guess they decided to go driving around. Maybe just to talk, or…”

“Or nothing,” Artifex muttered. “Talk? Bull.”

“Artifex,” Adagio chided. “Maybe they’re just settling old grudges. Like we did.”

“No, not like we did,” Artifex replied, looking sharply up at his girlfriend. His gaze was intense, but she, to her infinite credit, did not falter. “This is different, Adagio. I can feel it.”

“... okay, maybe it is,” she admitted, “but, we should give this Sugar Belle some benefit of the doubt.”

Artifex said nothing to that. Adagio turned back to Ink. “Does Applejack know?”

“I’d imagine now she does,” Ink said, leaning back and crossing her arms. She looked out the window, at the city, the street, the cars. “I heard her come home later with Granny Smith. Apple Bloom practically bolted out of her room to go find them. She must have told them what happened, but after that, I didn’t hear anything from either. They must have been mad. So mad…”

“Why would they be mad?” Adagio asked.

“I don’t know. All I know is that there’s some bad blood between the Apples and Sugar Belle.”

“Bad blood that Mac would apparently prefer to ignore,” Artifex said. He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttered a curse. “Ah… I’m sorry, Ink. I shouldn’t be this angry, but when two of my friends are just suddenly driven apart…”

“It’s not like that,” Ink said, but she knew she didn’t sound convinced. She kept looking outside.

What was it like, then? They were just friends, right? Ink had no control over who Big Mac met, or saw, or let into his home, and who cared that Sugar Belle had done something awful in the past, something that made Big Mac quiet, and Applejack angry and protective of him, and Apple Bloom, the sweetest girl Ink had ever met, so fierce and hostile? It didn’t matter, right?

Right?

“Well…” But then Ink’s voice faded away as she saw who walked past. Artifex and Adagio turned to look, and let out their own startled gasps.

It was those two.

Big Mac and Sugar Belle.

And they were laughing.

Smiling.

Holding each other close and walking right past them. Seemingly without a care in the world.

They stopped. Mac said something. Sugar Belle laughed a little harder. Then, she leaned up close to Mac’s face and—

Ink blinked. The moment passed. Then they were walking.

She kept staring. They all kept staring.

Mac stopped. Had he noticed? He turned, saw Sugarcube Corner, saw through the glass, looked through, saw her. He paused. His face was messy, unreadable, mixed… wrong. That was the word. It was just wrong. It just was.

Sugar Belle said something, then pulled him away, and then they were gone.

No one there spoke for a while.

Then, Artifex grabbed his cane. “I’m going after him. I’m gonna give him a piece of my mind—”

And Adagio was moving, too. “Not unless I get to him first, dear.”

“Wait.”

They stopped at the sound of Ink’s voice. “Please,” she murmured, “please. Don’t… just don’t.”

“Ink,” Artifex said, but Ink shook her head. “Please, Artifex, don’t make this a big deal. Because it’s not. Really.”

She tried for a smile, but the smile, she knew, fell short. Was disingenuous. Fake. Forced.

Painful.

Her eyes were filling with something, and she knew they would see them. So she quickly stood, nearly knocking over her drink. Hastily she pulled out a wad of cash and stuck it next to the saucer. “Really, it’s fine,” she said. “You don’t… don’t do anything, okay? Really. Please. I just… I need to go.”

“Ink…”

“I need to go.”

And then she, too, was gone.

Chapter Twenty-Nine: ... But You Never Answered Me

The truck ride to school was quiet, and that was what ruined it.

Sitting in the back with Apple Bloom, who was fiddling idly with her phone (probably texting her friends), Ink was in the perfect position to see the anger rising out of Applejack as Big Mac drove all four of them to Canterlot High. It was not a position she enjoyed, not just because of the anticipation that was currently killing her, but because of its close proximity to Big Mac. That scene in front of Sugarcube Corner bothered her to no end, even as she struggled to figure out why.

Ink was only partly thankful that Applejack hadn’t learned about what had happened that day, but that didn’t mean jack squat considering she knew that Sugar Belle was back in town. It was probably taking the farm girl all of her willpower not to lash out and scold Mac for “the dumbest thang anyone in the Apple family could ever do!” As they rode, Applejack’s frown deepened; her brow furrowed; and it was clear her willpower was incapable of matching her anger.

Ink glanced out the window. The snow was still there, of course. But the roads were much wetter, more slick, and so Mac drove at a slow pace through the winding paths onto the main street that led through the city. Suddenly she wondered if Sugar Belle had ridden in this truck, if she had sat in Ink’s current seat; or, perhaps, and perhaps this had occurred to Applejack as well, in the passenger’s seat. And what was a high-society city girl to do with a big, brawny fellow like Mac but…

Ink’s face reddened. She forced the thought away with a light clearing of her throat, hoping no one had caught her.

As they were coming to the light, a car suddenly darted out from a nearby driveway, cutting in front of Mac. He slammed on the brakes and let out a curse.

“Leave ‘im be, Mac,” Applejack murmured.

“AJ, he cut me off—”

“Ah said, leave ‘im be!”

“AJ—”

The two went back and forth like that, and their voices kept rising and rising. Apple Bloom looked up from her phone, frowning, then looked over at Ink. She seemed to be asking for something—a gesture, a negotiator, an in-betweener, someone with a cool head to rise above the hotter ones—but this Ink could not provide. All she could do was look out the window and wish they were at school already.

“What’s with you today, Applejack?” Big Mac shouted. “You’ve been stewing all morning, an’ now all of a sudden yer getting on mah case on account of some idiot’s driving!”

“You know damn well what’s with me!” Applejack shouted back. “You know it, Apple Bloom knows it, even Ink knows it!”

Mac turned around to face the two in the back. “That so? Then maybe one of y’all can tell me what’s got AJ in a hissy fit, huh? Ink?”

But Ink wasn’t listening. She had caught sight of a certain girl walking down the street, still wearing that same, brightly-colored jacket as before. She could almost hear the pearls of laughter that came with her.

“Ink?” Now Mac had lost his angry tone, for the moment anyway, and had replaced it with one of concern. “Something wrong?”

Ink slowly turned around. She stared at Mac for a second, then looked past, through the windshield. “The driver’s gone,” she said quietly. “And the light’s green.”

Mac whipped around, cursed when he saw she was right, and then floored it, Applejack protesting all the while.

Ink felt a hand touch hers. A squeeze followed. She didn’t need to look to see it was Apple Bloom, silently telling her it was all right, even if both didn’t believe it.

So Ink began to think of other things to fill the time.

She hadn’t been entirely honest with the information she had given Artifex and Adagio yesterday. It was true that Mac and Sugar Belle had left when she had come down… but that wasn’t the only time she had returned to the first floor of the house. She had leaned against the wall that covered the stairs, and had been close enough to catch a snippet of their conversation.

“... and so I’ll be attending Crystal Prep for the year, before going abroad,” Sugar Belle was saying. “My dad gave me his blessing.”

“Is he excited?” Mac replied.

“He… wasn’t as enthusiastic. His baby girl going off into the wider world, even for a massive educational opportunity? Well, that scared him. A lot. And it scares me a little, too, I’ll admit.”

“You’ll be fine, Sugah.”

The way he had said her name... It made Ink feel queasy, thinking about it now.

Sugar Belle had laughed at that. “Well, I’m glad you have faith in me, Big Macintosh. It’s nice to know that hasn’t been completely…”

Her voice had died down then, and so Ink had not heard the last bit of that statement. What followed was a heavy silence, one that she decided, if only to assuage her meager (she insisted) concerns, Sugar Belle was regretting bringing on.

Then Mac said, “But you won’t be stayin’ with yer folks, though, right?”

“No. They’ll be at home, still, in Manehattan. You know, I thought I could stay here…”

Oh no you had better not!

“Can’t. Ink’s stayin’ with us, and we ain’t got another spare room.”

Sugar Belle paused. “I… see. Well, either way, I’ll be staying with a friend. You might remember her. Night Glider? She’s got a sort of, grey-blue complexion? Shock of white hair?”

“I remember her. That’s nice of her, to let you stay.”

“Yes, it is. I’m very thankful. I didn’t want to wind up in Canterlot alone…”

Her voice had fallen again, and so had Mac’s, and it was then that Ink decided she had heard enough; she returned upstairs, and did not come back down until much later, and by then they had already left.

With that memory finished, Ink returned to the present. She blinked, surprised, as the outer walls of Canterlot High rolled past. Mac made a turn left, and drove into the student parking lot. He stopped the car, parked, shut off the engine. The buses were also rolling in.

Applejack got out in a huff, dragging with her her backpack. She didn’t say bye to Mac, nor thanked him for the ride, and said a scant word to either Ink or Apple Bloom before taking off for the horse statue. Apple Bloom was a bit nicer, getting out and giving Mac a hug (and then one to Ink, surprisingly), before heading off, too. Ink was therefore the last to get out.

“Here.” Mac held out a hand. She took it gratefully, and he pulled her out, steadying her as he closed the door and locked it. “Ride wasn’t too bad?”

“No, not really.” She didn’t feel like talking, but with someone like Mac, she couldn’t help but want to speak, even if it was against her better judgement. “Applejack. She…”

“Don’t pay her mind,” Mac said. “The cold makes her cranky.”

How can you be so insightful sometimes and yet so dense, too? Is it because of her? Ink mentally slapped herself; she had to stop thinking such things. It was rude, and demeaning, and… and there she was going again, thinking such things.

“Thanks for the ride here,” she said. Big Mac nodded. She refused to look at him, for fear of her face betraying what she was feeling.

“I’ll… see you later then,” she added. And before he could respond, she quickly marched away.

Her first class was Language Arts, again with Mr. Solil. Some students had switched out by then, opting for easier courses, but Ink and Artifex kept their place, as did most of the class. Mr. Solil did not throw them into work. He knew it was the first day since break, and they would need to refresh their minds a little before they got back to the lessons at hand.

They had been split into groups, Ink with Artifex and two others she didn’t know. As they were pooling over a bit of poetry, Mr. Solil suddenly came up to her. “Ink, could you come out into the hall for a moment?” he said quietly into her ear.

Ink instinctively looked at Artifex. He caught her eye, then nodded, and quickly shuffled so that she could make as much of an inconscpicuous exit as possible. Thankfully, no one looked up as she and Mr. Solil left the room.

“What’s up, Mr. Solil?” she asked once they were outside.

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he replied. But his voice had lost its characteristic light-heartedness. It was replaced with a somber murmur. Something serious had happened, and Ink was confident in this when Mr. Solil hesitated with his next set of words.

“Mr. Solil?” she prompted.

He looked at her, then. “I… haven’t been privy to a great many details,” he began. “And I’m not going to ask you tell me any, unless you feel comfortable.” He ran a hand over his arm, an action she had seen Artifex do as a sign of nervousness or unease.

Then he took a breath. “The point is… I want you to know that if you feel the workload is too strenuous for you right now, or if you feel the need to leave the class and talk to someone, all you have to do is let me know.”

It took her a moment to realize what he was talking about. Her heart began thundering against her chest. “Oh...” Her voice trailed.

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” he murmured. “But… if you need someone to talk to, my door is always open.”

It felt like a long time she found her voice again. “Thank you, Mr. Solil.”

“Of course, Ink.”

Then, spurred by a sudden need, she stepped forward and hugged her teacher. He stepped back, momentarily shocked, and then returned the hug. There were tears gathering in her eyes.

They were quiet for a while before they both decided to return to class.

At lunch, Ink sat once again with Gaige and Hazel. Surrounded by the usual loudness and the familiar sight of friends and students alike, she almost felt like nothing had changed.

When she had sat down, though, she didn’t get a single word in before the two girls reached over and embraced her. Gaige, surprisingly, hugged the hardest, and the longest, for as Hazel let go, she was still there.

“Hey, girls,” Ink said tiredly, managing a smile. “I’m happy to see you both.”

It was then that Gaige let go. Her face was a bit twisted up; Ink realized it was because she wasn’t one for prolonged physical affection. The fact that she went out of her way to do this for her warmed her heart.

“Us, too,” Hazel said. “It feels like a lifetime since we’ve all been together. Here,” she added quickly.

“Yeah…” Ink supposed that was an accurate conclusion. One lifetime had ended, and now a new one had begun. Who was to say where it would lead?

Lunch consisted of mostly talking about everything but the hospital, a fact that Ink was grateful for, but also a fact that left a hole in her heart. They talked at length, first, about Gaige’s hair. Seeing her without pigtails for the second time in a row, Ink still was blown away by it. “You kinda look like a boy,” she said between mild snickers. “Is Flash into little Taiwanese kids now?”

“Baka!” Gaige exclaimed. She bopped Ink on the shoulder. “Listen, just call it, em, a safety precaution. You know, what with that handlebar comment you made all that time ago.”

“Why would you care? It’s not like I’m actually gonna ride you into the ground.”

“N-no, but, well—”

“Flash isn’t a good horseback rider, let’s just say,” Hazel piped in. Gaige threw a spoon at her. Then a fruit cup. Where she got the fruit cup, no one knew, and if she had gotten it legally… (“Of course I got it legally, you idiot!”)

“Oh.” Ink’s face flushed at the implication. “R-right. I didn’t need to know that.”

“Your fault for asking,” Gaige said, retrieving her spoon.

Ink giggled. She regarded Gaige with a careful gaze. “Well, it does look good on you. Think you’ll keep it?”

“No way. I’m just doing this ‘cause Ragga said Jarvy had to put it in. Maybe when he reboots Treble’s story he’ll have me back to pigtails.”

“I’ll pretend that makes sense.” Ink reached out and patted Gaige’s head, like a puppy. “You’ve finally embraced the short-hair look, though. Glad to see you’ve come around.”

“It’s not like you own it or anything! Besides, you’re one to talk. Your hair isn’t even short anymore.”

Ink reached back and felt her hair. It was almost down to her shoulders, the longest it had been in a long time. “Huh. I guess you’re right.”

“Who are you growing it for?” Hazel asked, and before Ink could answer, she continued, “Is it for Mac? I bet it is!”

Clouds rolled across the sky, and the sunlight that had been streaming through the tall cafeteria doors dimmed. The room was dark, and all felt its sudden change. Ink’s eyes glowed their burgundy color in that darkness, and in that color was pain.

“No,” she said, “it’s not for Mac.”

Then she proceeded to tell them what had happened over the last several days. She did so quickly, without extravagance. Simple facts. Mac and Sugar Belle. There. Simple as that. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt.

Hazel was quiet, and, scarily, so was Gaige. They couldn’t look away. The clouds continued rolling and the sunlight returned.

“Ink,” Gaige said quietly.

“It’s fine,” she replied on instinct. “Really, it is. I told Artifex about it on Saturday and then we saw them together and they were—”

Her voice hitched. Damn it! “It’s… It’s fine.”

“It is not fine,” Hazel said. “Girl, that Sugar Belle just straight up stole your man!”

“He’s not my man,” Ink mumbled.

“Like hell he isn’t. Ink, we girls know when one of our friends has the hots for someone that hot. It’s in our nature!”

“I don’t know about about,” Gaige said. “But Hazel’s right. Ink, you like him.”

“Well, what does that matter, if I like or don’t like him?” Ink said right back. “He’s with Sugar Belle now, and she’s making him happy. That’s all there is to it.”

“Ink, you’re shaking.”

She was. And not only that, her hands were clenched together in fists, so tightly she could feel the nails digging deep into her palms. She unclenched them, slowly, and felt that her breathing had quickened.

“Ink,” Hazel said, “it’s okay to be jealous—”

“I’m not jealous of Sugar Belle! Mac and I, we—we’re just friends. He said so.”

But even as she said this, she knew her friends weren’t convinced, for surely they had heard the break in her voice, like the crashing waves against the shore, loud and rough and cutting through her.

“Ink.” Gaige had said this. She had said this and nothing more, and nothing more was needed to be said.

After a while, Ink sighed. She buried her face in her hands. “It’s just… so much has happened so quickly, so much pain… how can I think about being jealous at a time like this?” She sniffled. “Mom needs me to be strong. She doesn’t need me to be petty.”

Then she looked at her friends. “Which is why I’m saying this, and you’re going to allow this: it doesn’t matter. Mac is with Sugar Belle. That’s just how it’s going to be now. It doesn’t matter how I feel, because how I feel is relevant. Okay?”

The two girls glanced at each other; then, they both nodded. “Sure, Ink,” Gaige said. But her eyes were big and sad. “Sure.”

Lock those feelings away. Flee from night and day. Don’t keep them close.

Don’t give them life.

It’s fine. It’s fine.

… so why does it hurt so much?

At the end of the day, Ink left the school alone. Her backpack was in tow, dragged across her shoulders and making her hunch over. Monday had been exhausting. She was thankful that the day was finally over. Now she could head home.

When she saw the light-blue hood of Big Mac’s truck, she felt her heart skip a beat. Had she beaten Applejack and Apple Bloom here? She looked around for him. He didn’t seem to be nearby. She crept a little closer. Maybe he was running late, too—

She heard giggling. These came from the other side of the truck. Ink felt her heart racing. She peered over the edge of the wall that separated the school courtyard from the parking lot.

Sugar Belle.

He’d picked her up early, hadn’t he? Of course he had. Big Mac was just that kind of guy. He’d go out of his way to make life a convenience for you.

Then I’ll make yours convenient, too.

Ink drew away from the wall, from the truck. She counted fifty steps, turned, and saw that she was surely out of their line of sight. She only stopped for a moment, to stare. Then she walked away.

She took out her phone and turned it off, blinking dully at the fading screen. Don’t bother me.

She walked down the street and turned down it. The snow was nearly gone, now. Little tufts of grass and lichen peeked out from the small openings that had melted through. Cars drove past, tires crunching against the mix of gravel and salt. Several students were walking home, and she naturally fell in line with them. They didn’t notice her, and she was happy not to be noticed.

Mac and Sugar Belle flashed in her mind like stilted, choppy images from a projector. First, they were shown on separate slides. Then suddenly, they had come together. One slide was a clear view of that Saturday when she had seen them outside of Sugarcube. It seemed to be talking, too. No, yelling. Yelling for her to move aside, move aside…

“Move aside, please.”

She moved, allowing an older man to walk past. She stared after him. He seemed familiar—slate skin and all. Then he was gone, and she thought of him no longer.

She kept walking. Soon she was at a crossroads, where the pedestrian light was red and where cars and trucks kept roaring past. She was thinking of her mother. She wondered what she might say, if she knew Ink’s situation. Not just with what had happened to her, but also her situation with Mac. What advice might she give? What advice could she give?

But what did that matter? She wasn’t here. She was in the hospital, asleep, but she might as well have been dead…

No, don’t think that, Ink! She shook her head just as the light turned white for them to go, and she crossed over, banishing the thought from her mind.

Her feet continued to carry her while she thought other things. Artifex had been angry. Gaige had been subdued. This wasn’t like them. They had been affected by what she had said of Mac and Sugar Belle. But why? Why would they care? Why would she care?

Why does it hurt?

Abruptly, her feet stop. It was as though they had been issued a command from someone other than her. They had her facing a little home at the end of the street. It took her a moment to realize where she was.

The windows’ binds were open and inside she saw nothing but darkness. The lights had been turned out. The snow on top of the roof looked as though it had been there forever, and it showed no sign of melting. The chimes had been tangled up by some forlorn breeze, wrapped around one of the porch’s posts like grasping fingers, and the music or voice or noise they had made wouldn’t sound again until they were freed.

That fact that her home was this dark, this lonely, unnerved her. She was looking at something she had never imagined before, something that shouldn’t be possible. But here it was. And the impossible had come to pass. And now what was she to do?

She stared at it for an uncountable time, asking herself that silent question, and not receiving any answer. She felt tears gather. She did not wipe them around; there was no one around to judge her for them; and so, she let them fall.

And about, silence reigned supreme. The sun passed over. Then it was dark. Still she stayed.

Then she heard honking, twice, followed by a painfully familiar voice: “Ink!”

She heard the truck pull up behind her. She wiped her face with her sleeve. She didn’t turn around. “Go away, Mac.”

“Ink, listen—”

“I said, go away, Mac. Please.”

“Ink, I’ve been trying to call you for a while. Nurse Golding’s also been trying to get ahold of you.”

That got her attention. She turned around, and did not care that in the passenger’s seat, much to the backseat occupants’ displeasure was Sugar Belle. “What are you talking about, Mac?” Ink asked.

“Get in.” Apple Bloom opened the door and Ink crawled inside. “We have to get to the hospital.”

Her blood ran cold. “Why? Is something wrong?”

Mac glanced back at her. “Ink. Your mother’s awake.”

Author's Notes:

Jarvy quit dragging your stupid fucking story you fucking heathen fuck you

luv u 2 bbys

Chapter Thirty: The Last Of The Dream

“Your mother’s awake.”

That singular statement pounded through Ink’s mind like a sledgehammer, pounded through her doubt and despair, her nameless sorrow and grief. It made the ride quick and easy, so easy in fact that she largely forgot that Sugar Belle was right in front of her. And the news seemed to have placated the previously warring Apples, for neither Applejack nor Apple Bloom offered up a word of protest as Mac drove the five of them to the hospital.

She had turned on her phone in the car and had seen that Nurse Golding had called twice, while Mac had called almost a dozen times. A stab of guilt had nearly made her cry out as they had driven here, but that was in the past; she would apologize to Golding later, and then, yes, then, to Mac. But only later.

When they arrived, they came out in a colorful rush of energy, and bounded through the double doors. Sugar Belle lagged behind them. She was probably confused by what was going on, but had it in her character not to question, for any question would bother the four rushing individuals who had almost bowled over a hospital employee. They only stopped once: at the reception desk, to let the man there know they were here for Glory Quill.

“Go down the hall, first elevators on the left. Second floor is the ICU.” As if they needed directions. They thanked him, and a moment later, the five were crowding the elevator.

Ink’s mind was ablaze. Her mother was awake. She realized, suddenly, that it had been eleven days since that night; eleven days since her life was torn apart. Almost two weeks of waiting, and praying, and crying emptiness. All of that, gone, because her mother was awake.

What would she say? What should Ink say? “Hi, Mom, glad to see you’re awake again!” didn’t seem sufficient. How composed should she be? Was she to be quiet, so as to not overstimulate her mother? How long ago had she awoken? Were there any complications?

Her heart was racing even faster now. It was as though she was in the biggest marathon of her life. She could not afford to come second, to come anything less than first. Victory for Glory Quill—didn’t that have a nice ring to it?

She felt a hand grab hers. Looking down, she saw it was Big Mac. He glanced at her, and smiled; and her heart felt calm. So calm, in fact, that she didn’t see the look of surprise that glossed over Sugar Belle’s face.

The doors slid open. They stepped out and began making their way to the ward.

I never got to show her what I’d written. I should show her. But Ink didn’t have her laptop with her. Yet that didn’t stop her from entertaining the idea. She’d love it, I bet! Even though I haven’t written enough to complete it. That’s okay. I’ll show her it, and then—then everything will be all right.

The ward to the ICU approached. They passed the waiting room and slowed as they came through the brightly-lit entrance and always-open door. Ink heard the same, mechanical beeping; smelled the same ammonia; but there was something else in the ward, something new.

Voices. One of which was her mother’s.

They approached her room cautiously. Ink somehow ended up in front, pushed along by an invisible, beckoning force. They passed a few nurses, before finally entering the room.

Nurse Golding had been talking to a nurse when they had entered, and stopped to mark something down on a clipboard. She looked up when she heard them. Her smile was big and wide, blonde hair bouncing over her shoulders as she straightened. “Well, well, well. Look who it is!”

Ink said nothing, but she couldn’t contain her smile. Nurse Golding came over and embraced her. “How ya doing, girl?”

Ink mumbled a reply, then asked, “How is she?”

“Why don’t you take a look for yourself?” Nurse Golding walked to the side of the bed.

And there she was.

Ink could have cried, then. She was sitting up in her hospital gown, and though the wires coming from her head was a terrible sight, seeing and hearing her talking and speaking was a humongous blessing. They had shaved some of her hair away to make space for one of the conduits that blinked on her head like glittering Christmas lights, but she still looked as beautiful as ever. And she was smiling, too—smiling and talking and breathing fine, it seemed.

But she was thin. She had been fed nothing solid for those days, and now that showed. She was all skin and bones. Her complexion had paled to a ghostly, faded pink. This was her mother; but it was her mother, changed.

She lay in her bed, the bed sheets pulled up to her chest. She must have been terribly cold. Her lips were parted in a light smile, though it appeared sluggish, without energy. A breathing apparatus was inserted over her nose, and Ink could hear the ffssh as oxygen flowed.

Ink stared at her mother. Her mother stared back. The others waited.

Her mother shifted her gaze back to Nurse Golding. Her brows came together, then loosened. “Hello, Nurse Golding,” she said softly.

“Hiya, Glory. How do you feel?”

“Funny. Tired. Thirsty.”

“That’s perfectly normal, Glory. We’ll get you some water real soon. Do you know where you are?”

Glory Quill glanced around. Ink watched her eyes. They lingered a little too long in places. “A hospital?”

“Very good! Do you remember why?”

She frowned, scrunched her brow, then shook her head.

“You had an aneurysm, Mrs. Quill.”

“Who did?”

“You did. It was on Christmas Eve.”

Mrs. Quill stared at Nurse Golding, then nodded. It didn’t seem like she understood; she had nodded simply because it was a response. “I’m in a hospital?”

She was confused. Dazed. Ink felt funny in realizing that.

Nurse Golding spread an arm over to where the young girl stood, pointing to her. “Glory, you have some visitors.”

“I do? Visitors?” Then she said, “I’m in a hospital?”

“Yes, Glory. Visitors. You recognize them, don’t you? Or at least the one in front? Your daughter?”

Here it was: the moment of truth. Ink felt herself suck in a breath. Her entire body felt tense, like a coil wound up tightly. Would her worse fear come to life?

Ink’s mother stared at her. Ink took a step forward. Ink’s mother squinted. Paused. Breathed in, breathed out. She looked at Nurse Golding. “Hospital?” she said, her voice growing tired.

“Look at her, Glory. You recognize her, right?” Nurse Golding pointed again.

Ink’s voice bubbled out of her mouth, and burst so softly, like a baby’s soft cooing. “Mom?”

Her mother stared at her. Squinted. Widened her eyes. Squinted again.

“Do you recognize her?”

Silence. Ink could hear her heart beating in her ears.

Her mother leaned a bit forward, and Ink stepped forward, too, and they were so close, so close that it hurt to see her like this. Please, Mom, Ink cried. Please, remember.

“... I’m sorry, I don’t seem to recognize you. Who are you again?”

Her chest filled with cold dread. Suddenly she felt the world spin, and her mother became the ceiling, and the ceiling was rolling back. Something caught her. And then the room was gone.

Apple Bloom described it as “like you just watched yer baby gettin’ murdered right in front of ya,” an analogy that earned her a swift smack to the back of her head from Applejack. It was also an inaccurate one. It was so much worse than that.

They were back in the hospital waiting room again. The seats easily welcomed them, and Ink took her familiar spot by the window. Mac was next to her; next to him was Sugar Belle, who bore a look of utter perplexity. Belatedly, Ink realized Mac hadn’t told her anything of what had happened. By now, she was beginning to put the pieces together.

Mac was the one who had caught her before she fell, and he had been by her side while Nurse Golding tried to defuse the situation. “It’s the medication,” she said, “and the fact that her eyes aren’t as good as they used to be. She probably saw nothing but a blurry form.”

Plausible, sure; even reasonable. But when Ink looked back at her mother through the tears, she saw only the look of distant confusion, and that tore her heart in two. So she did not look at her mother any longer, and then they were taken into the waiting room to, well, wait.

Wait for what? Hadn’t Ink received her answer? What more torture could be thrown at her? How much more pain could she endure?

She stared out the window, still dwelling on what had happened. Was it really just her mother’s eyes and the medication? Perhaps it was also because Ink’s hair was longer. Perhaps she didn’t recognize her own daughter because the last she had seen of her, she had hair that was just touching her neck. Her reflection stared back, and suddenly, Ink was aware of her difference in appearance; she was haggard, worn-out, different. There wasn’t a spark in her eyes. She was different, and that scared her.

“Ink,” Mac said. But his voice was low and quiet and he said no more as he reached out and touched her shoulder. She didn’t respond to his touch.

It was later—much later, for now the moon was at its highest—that Ink finally spoke again. “I want to go home.”

But for her, she did not know where that truly was.

Sugar Belle had gone. Everyone else was asleep. Everyone, except for Ink.

Her fingers felt stiff and awkward as she touched the well-worn keys of her computer. The little light that flickered from the screen was like a supernatural veil, casting its glow on her face like a transparent blanket. Her story’s document was pulled up, but she found she could add no more words.

As opposed to before, when she could look at the screen and see all of the overwhelming possibilities, now all she saw was her mother in the bed, unable to recognize her own daughter. That scene played out in Ink’s mind; it was her story, now, not this shambling mess of letters and paragraphs. It was all she could focus on. It was all she should focus on, she thought.

She fell in love once. To date, the best line she had written. To date, the line that was like a magician’s illusion that had distracted her from the true difficulties of life. The last of the dream. Her dream.

There was no time for dreams now. Least of all dreams that were silly and stupid, born of some fantasy, that this girl could write anything moving. No, there was no time for such idiotic and moronic fantasies. Reality had set in, and Ink would be a fool not to follow it.

She stared at her writing for a moment. Then she felt consumed by an all-encompassing, swirling mess of hate and disgust. Such a stupid dream. Such a stupid project. She was stupid to have tried. There would be no time for it now, anyway.

She exited out of the word processor, and barely had a second thought as she dragged the file into the the recycling bin.

She went to bed afterwards. She dreamt of nothing.

Chapter Thirty-One: Call to Arms

January passed into February. For some, it passed without notice, creeping towards and then past them at a sloth-like pace. It had never seemed to be approaching, with a new semester of classes and a new series of certain academic woes on the immediate horizon, and so it had snuck up on the unsuspecting and pounced, bringing with it this realization: the school year was coming to a close.

For Big Mac, though, the time passed like nothing, and it was mostly thanks to the girl with whom he was currently dining at Hamilton’s Diner (the name being strange, for no worker or owner there had the name Hamilton). Sugar Belle had picked it out, and though the food was somewhat expensive, Mac had readily agreed.

Now, situated in front of a stack of pancakes and waffles while Sugar Belle chewed on a croissant, Mac’s mind drifted without focus. He was looking out of the diner, into the street. In his mind, he remembered a scene just like this, only with him as the onlooker, and someone else looking out at him. He felt strangely detached.

“Macintosh?”

Sugar Belle’s sweet, inviting voice brought him back to the present. He quickly turned his head, and managed a smile. “Eeyup?”

Sugar Belle was pouting. “You weren’t listening, were you?”

“I’m sorry, Sugar Belle. I was thinkin’ about something.”

“Something other than me? Other than us?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I was thinkin’ about a friend.”

Her pout became a frown. “Ink Quill, I’m guessing.”

“You know me too well.” He stuck a fork into his pancakes and proceeded to eat a few. They were small and bite-sized. He almost thought he heard Sugar Belle murmur, “But she knows you well, too,” but figured it was just his imagination.

“I can’t blame you for that, I suppose,” Sugar Belle said. “What with the poor dear’s mother and everything…”

Mac frowned at that. It was a sore topic to bring up, not just because Ink was obviously in deep pain, but also because it was still a nightmare for Mac. After all, he had been there that very same night; he had seen exactly what Ink had seen. Perhaps he was being a bit sensitive, but could he ever forget that scream of pain?

For it wasn’t just Ink who had thought she was seeing someone die.

“I hope,” Sugar Belle continued, “that her mother will be okay. It’s been more than a month now, hasn’t it?”

“Eeyup. But the docs aren’t too sure of anything,” Mac said quietly.

“No… I guess with these kinds of things, all you can do is hope for the best.”

“It ain’t enough.”

“Is it ever?” Sugar Belle said this with a sad smile. “Sometimes hope seems a little weak when faced with reality.”

Mac had to admit she was right in a way. They’d all been hoping—Ink, most of all—for a quick and speedy awakening and then recovery. But after that incident where Ink’s mother failed to recognize her, it seemed the girl had completely given up on hoping for such a facilitated ending. It didn’t help, too, that her mother slipped between consciousness and unconsciousness constantly; perhaps to her, Mac thought, it was like watching someone teeter on the edge of life and death.

Maybe that was too much for one girl to handle, perhaps for any one person to handle.

“Sometimes it’s all ya got,” he stated, “and that’s all yer gonna get, so you have to make it be enough.”

Sugar Belle took a sip of her coffee—dark,without cinnamon, Mac remembered; a strange combination, given her name—but said nothing. Mac watched her. Her eyes wandered over the diner, over the red booth they sat in and the other tables that were filled with noisy gossipers, undercover food reviewers, and the like. Then they wandered over to the outside, where a bright Saturday morning was growing. It was the 7th of that month, and their fourth date together since Sugar Belle had returned.

“I haven’t heard you so… sentimental-sounding.”

“Well, I’ve changed a bit. Been hangin’ around some real sentimental fellows.”

“Yes… such as that Artifex kid, or Nostradamus, or Ink.” She swirled a spoon around in her cup, the instrument making a light, high-pitched note as it spun around and around. Mac knew this gesture to be one demonstrating she was thinking.

“What’s on yer mind, Sugar Belle?”

Her lips stretched into a smile. “You know, that was the line that made me fall for you in the first place. I’m not even sure why; maybe because it just seems just like you to say that.”

She flipped her hair. She had cut it recently, and now it was a poofy length just above her shoulders. “As to your question, I was just thinking about… us.”

“Us?”

It was a loaded topic, one that held no easy answer, and so Mac wisely did not say more and let Sugar Belle continue.

“It’s just… I’m not sure about where we stand with each other.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“Well, take just now, for instance.” She spread an arm over the table. “Normally when couples go out for a breakfast, they’re talking to each other constantly. Listening, too. Now I know you’re a quiet person, Mac, but sometimes I wonder if you’re really into me.”

“Of course I’m into you! Why wouldn’t I be?”

She pursed her lips. “It’s just—sometimes I think you’re more worried about that Ink girl than you are for me.”

“That’s not—”

“Just hear me out,” she said. “I’m sure she’s a lovely girl, and I know she’s a good friend of yours, and I know that she’s been through a lot. I’m not saying you shouldn’t worry about her; what kind of friend would you be if you didn’t? But I’m also saying that, well, I don’t want that to be your only focus.” She paused. “I don’t want you to be consumed by this. There are things you have to do, people in your life who care for you and don’t want to see you caught up in something that you have no control over.”

“I…”

Mac found he had no words. Sugar Belle regarded him with a small smile. “I love that part of you, though. The caring part. It’s something I’ve always loved. I don’t want to sound like I’m jealous, or that I feel like I’m being ignored, but… well, I guess I’m just asking you to keep me in mind.”

“Sugar, you’re always on my mind, you know that.”

She nodded. “I know. But can you blame a girl for feeling a bit insecure?”

They finished eating and, as per usual, split the bill 60-40, Mac paying the former. “Come on,” Sugar Belle said, grabbing her coat. “Let’s just walk around.”

After they left the diner, the emerged on the busy street, where groups of interspersed people crossed and walked. Mac and Sugar Belle were quick to join them. About, the sounds of the city of Canterlot abounded, and the somber tone from before soon vacated the premises. Mac almost forgot their entire conversation.

With Hamilton’s Diner out of sight, they traveled up the streets and passed the various shops, open diners, cafes, and stores that lined the concrete walkways and sidewalks. As it was the weekend, Mac half-expected to see some of the students from CHS walking down the streets—perhaps even Artifex, who was indeed fond of city life—and as they passed the various joints where students often gathered for a fun time, he found himself peering in, hoping for a familiar face. Each time, though, he was dragged away by Sugar Belle, laughing as she pulled him from the windows.

He had missed this, he realized through the trip. The simple wandering, meandering, adventuring in a place of utter familiarity with someone familiar and yet still being able to be caught off-guard by the sight of, say, a pigeon with a miniature Santa hat, or a street-corner magician vanishing on the count of three, or a back-alley musical ensemble where the curious gathered; all that one could possibly experience, with someone they liked.

I bet Ink would like this, he suddenly thought.

It was enough to slow him down. They were passing a print shop, now, in whose window were some posters and advertisements. Sugar Belle noticed his pause.

“Mac? Come on, don’t just leave me behind like that.”

“Oh, sorry, Sugar Belle.” But he wasn’t looking at her anymore. Something in the print shop had caught his attention, and as he stared at it, a distant memory began to form.

It is the end of January, or the beginning of February; Mac doesn’t remember, but that, he supposes, isn’t important. What is important is that he has just chosen this time to return from a morning of helping cart out several old boxes that the Apple Family didn’t need. A lot of things are on his mind, most pressingly is his upcoming date with Sugar Belle. He hasn’t been in on a date in years, and he worries he might have lost his touch.

Well, that isn’t entirely true, he thinks. Really, that dinner with Ink? That was a date. Maybe a friend date, or a good friend date, but still a date. And not a bad one, at that. Thinking of it brings a smile to his face, and he begins whistling a little as he enters the house. He smells of sweat and wooden sawdust, and he plans on taking a shower quickly.

It is quiet in the house. Apple Bloom has gone off crusading with her friends, and Applejack this morning said something about Rainbow wanting them all to get in extra band practice. Granny Smith is in the dining room, writing a letter, so Mac decides not to bother her. He makes himself a cup of hot chocolate, thinking of the future. It is all he can think about at this time.

He goes upstairs with his cup of hot chocolate, but a glaring light from Ink’s room stops him in his tracks. Walking towards it, he presses open the door and finds the girl sitting at her desk. Her hair is growing long, now. It is starting to go past her shoulders. She said a while ago that she would cut it, but she has yet to see a barber. So it is long, and as dark-purple as ever, and he has to admit privately that it looks good; but he would never say that out loud, because he knows that it is a reminder that her mother didn’t recognize her, and moreover, he does think she looks cuter with shorter hair—

He stops that thought short and tosses it away, unsure where it came from.

Ink is sitting in her chair. The window blinds are pulled back and she has a clear view of the field below. But the intense light is coming from her laptop, on whose keys her fingers rest. They are idle. She appears to be staring into space, entranced by something on the screen.

Mac approaches. He is not sure of what to do, but he is aware of the eccentricities of writers, having read about them in those totally-not-female-contour-and-author-interview magazines. He is aware that some may go off at him for interrupting. So he is slow when he comes to Ink. She does not seem to register his presence.

He looks at her screen. It is her document, her story. Is it? No, it’s a blank one. He has no idea where her story document is, and it does not look she is intent on adding anything to this one.

Abruptly, the document vanishes. Ink has closed it, but it is as though she hasn’t moved. Her eyes do not trail from the screen; her fingers are still.

“Ink?” Mac calls.

That shakes her from her trance. “Huh? Mac?” She turns, surprised to see him there.

“Are you okay, Ink?” he asks softly. He decides not to say anything about the story. “Your laptop’s brightness is up real high.”

“O-oh. Is it?”

He nods. He reaches over and taps the brightness key a few times to bring it down. “There. Don’t want t’ strain your eyes with something that intense.”

“... Thank you.”

He stops his movements as Ink returns to looking at the screen. “Ink,” he says again, “are you sure everything’s all right?”

“I’m fine,” she says. She isn’t; she knows, and he does, too.

“Is it about the writing?” he presses. “Do you want to bounce off some ideas on me?”

She hesitates. Then she shakes her head. “No, I…”

She can’t find her voice for a few seconds. Something has seized it. Something terrible, Mac concludes. “Ink, you can tell me.”

Slowly, she reaches for her phone which had been in her pocket. She pulls up a website. A blog post is written there. It’s about surgery, and it’s about aneurysms. It was made by a doctor. She scrolls to the bottom, where a commenter is asking the doctor for an estimated cost.

“For a medium-sized aneurysm in the situation that you’re describing,” he has replied, “I estimate the cost to be a good $36,000 to $58,000.”

The commenter’s name is Ink Quill.

The phone is put down. Mac nearly drops his cup, so he sets it down, too. “Ink,” he breathes. His thoughts race to reassure her. “It’s— it’s just an estimate, it ain’t—”

“Nurse Golding estimated almost $40,000,” Ink says quietly. “That’s not counting the additional cost of therapy, both physical and mental, that Mom would need after this. If she gets out—”

“She will get out.”

“... that remains to be seen.”

It does, and it tears Mac up inside to see that stark, horrible realization settle so complacently on Ink.

Ink shakes her head. “I’m wrestling with costs, with bills that are sure to come, and here I am, trying to write something. It’s stupid of me. I have to figure out a way to get that much money…”

There are bags, deep, dark bags, under her eyes. She hasn’t been sleeping well. And if Mac’s own eyes aren’t mistaken, hers are red; she has been crying. Guilt stabs through him. Why wasn’t he around to help?

“I can take out a loan,” she ventures, but she seems to be talking to herself. “Maybe sell some of my older stuff. I’d ask my relatives, but they’re so far and few in between…”

“We can chip in,” Mac says.

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You don’t have to.”

She hesitates. “Mac… There are four of you in this family. Money’s tight as it is. You want to go to college. I can’t… I can’t take any of that from you.”

Before Mac can say anything, she shuts her laptop and gets up, nearly knocking his cup of hot chocolate over. “It doesn’t matter,” she mutters. “I’ve thrown it away. Tossed the story to the side. I have to focus on the present, now…”

Then, she is gone; gone, without so much of a goodbye.

And Mac has no idea what to say.

“Big Macintosh?”

Sugar Belle walked up next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Mac, you’re staring rather intently at that window. Do you want to buy something in there?”

He shook his head. “No, I… I was rememberin’ something important.”

Sugar Belle pursed her lips. “More important than me?”

“Yes.” The answer came out quicker than he expected, and he winced. “I-I mean—no—that is—it’s very important right now, Sugar Belle, I’m sorry.”

“It’s about Ink.” She sounded almost disappointed to hear that. But then she let out a strange, almost forceful breath. “All right. Mac, what’s on your mind?”

In quick succession he relayed to her his memory, and the disappointment in her voice quickly changed to that of shock and sympathy. “Goodness. That poor girl can’t catch a break, can she?”

He nodded sadly. “No, she can’t. I’m just wishin’ there was some way to help…”

“Mac. You’re trailing.”

He heard her, but he didn’t respond. He was looking now at one of the posters on display.

“I’ll be right back.”

He left Sugar Belle and went inside, where he talked to the manager of the print shop about that poster; to him the questions were brief, insignificant, done more out of curiosity, and so he didn’t remember them. He came back out with a fresh copy, one not soaked with snow or rain. A big smile was on his face.

“Are you going to explain what that is?” Sugar Belle asked.

He spread the poster out in front of her. “Take a look!”

Mac flipped the poster over. “Those interested in this competition,” he read, “can submit short stories, poetry, or excerpts from a longer narrative up to 20,000 words in length. The deadline for submission is February 28th, and results will be announced by late May. Regardless of placement, all submissions are eligible for publication in Canterlot’s Literary Magazine, which is sponsoring the event. All submissions will also be given a consolation prize of an autographed copy of each judge’s upcoming book.”

Sugar Belle read over the front again. She let out a whistle. “Wow. 60,000 dollars. That would be enough to pay off the estimated cost.”

“And Ink, I bet, would love to share what she’s been writing,” Mac said.

“Of course, she’d still have to win…”

“She will,” Mac affirmed with a sharp nod that made clear his faith. Sugar Belle looked doubtful, but since she had not seen Ink’s writing firsthand, he supposed he could allow her that.

Then again, he hadn’t seen much of Ink’s writing. But no! She would win. He believed it.

“Come on,” he said, quickly walking away from the store. “I gotta show Ink this. She’ll love it!”

Sugar Belle, after a moment of hesitation, followed after of him.

Mac’s footfalls were rapid, and he hardly slowed for Sugar Belle to keep up. She once or twice called him out in annoyance, and those once or twice times he listened and paused, but after those few times his pace would not be obstructed. Soon the city parted and gave way for the suburbs. A moment later, those suburbs became the fields he had long known.

Snow was scarce, and mud was everywhere. He did not care, and splashed happily through the wet deluge while Sugar Belle followed at a slower, more careful pace. Through wilted grass blades and soaked dry-grass he walked; past the dead trees, and also the stubborn ones that refused to die; until he saw his home in sight. The lights were on. Ink must surely be inside.

“She’ll love this,” he muttered, gripping the poster tightly within his hands. He hoped she’d love this. Besides, Mac couldn’t think of a reason why she wouldn’t, and he figured he knew Ink well enough to say what she would love and would not love.

He and Sugar Belle came to the doorstep with heavy footsteps. Sliding a key into the lock, he unlocked the door, then pushed forward.

Apple Bloom was there, surprisingly. “Apple Bloom?” Mac asked.

She gave Sugar Belle a nasty look (one that Sugar Belle ignored) before answering, “Ah finished crusadin’. Just came back.”

“Where’s Ink? Is she home?”

“Yeah, she’s home.” She pointed to the living room. “You won’t believe with who, though.”

Mac frowned at that, then walked past her. He heard giggling coming from the living room.

“Cut it out, Braeburn!”

No way.

Mac rounded the corner and stopped, his eyes falling upon the two who sat too close to each other on the couch. Two pairs of eyes turned. One face flushed, and the other flashed a grin.

“Howdy, Cousin Mac!”

Chapter Thirty-Two: New Developments

Once Mac had filtered through the shock of seeing Braeburn—Braeburn!—on his couch, and once his astonishment had transformed into barely constrained anger, he marched right over to Braeburn and hoisted him into the air. “What the hell are ya doin’ here, Braeburn?” he shouted into the smaller man’s face.

Braeburn was grinning as though unaffected by Mac’s anger. “Well, right now I’m currently getting good air mileage.”

“I got no time fer your jokes. Quit botherin’ Ink, or I’ll—”

“Mac!”

He felt Ink place a hand on his arm. She had a soft touch, so light that he almost didn’t even register she was there. He turned to her, and was surprised to see her brows furrowed and her lips tightened into a displeased frown. “Ink?” he said.

“Put him down, Mac,” she said.

He put Braeburn down. The younger man winced as he uncurled the wrinkled ends of his shirt. “Well, dang, cousin,” he said, “I guess you haven’t been missing the weight room.”

He said this so cheerfully that Mac almost missed the slight edge of fear in his voice. Upon recognizing it, a flash of guilt cut across his face.

The girl noticed it, too. Ink moved away from Mac and over to Braeburn. “Braeburn, are you okay? Mac, you shouldn’t be that rough with him!”

“ ‘S okay, Ink,” Braeburn said. “Mac don’t mean no harm, usually.”

“Ink, I—”

“Why’d you go off on him like that? Mac, that isn’t like you!”

Mac’s face flushed. “I was just— he was botherin’ you and—”

“Mac, he wasn’t bothering me.” She paused, glanced at Braeburn, seemed to remember something. “At least, not now he wasn’t.”

“Braeburn?”

That was Sugar Belle. She had come up behind Mac and was now staring at the other country boy like he was a man from a different planet. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he replied, a bit sharply. Sugar Belle visibly deflated. Mac glared at Braeburn. Braeburn cleared his throat and tried again. “Uh, I mean… Appleloosa sent me.”

“The entire town?” Mac said, incredulous.

“Naw, the school. They want to do some new things, things that I don’t all rightly understand, but they wanted to see what Canterlot was doing—and to drum up foot traffic, too, I’d imagine, seeing as how they gave me a bunch of vacation fliers.”

“But it’s February.”

“People like to go whenever. ‘Sides, Valentine’s Day is comin’ up. You never know if people might want to travel somewhere homely as a gift.” At this, he turned and smiled at Ink. “Jus’ lemme know if yer interested, girl.”

Ink frowned. Mac’s world reeled.

“Uh… huh,” he said.

“Goodness me!” Granny Smith came out of the kitchen. “What’s with all the noise?”

“Nothing, Granny Smith!” Braeburn said, flashing his signature smile. “Jus’ some family bonding, that’s all!”

“Don’t sound like no family bonding I’ve ever been a part of,” she grumbled. “Keep it down, would y’all? I need to be able to hear the pie!”

She went back into the kitchen, leaving the rest of them with confused faces. “Hear the pie?” Ink asked.

“It’s just something she says,” Braeburn explained. “Speaking of pies, I think it’s high time I start checkin’ on mine.”

Ink gave him another confused look. He chuckled. “Ah, well, you’ll understand one day, Ink.”

He reached over and patted her on the head—this made Ink blush, and Mac felt something tighten in his chest. He tried to push it away, and only succeeded in partly ignoring it. Then Braeburn turned to Mac. “No hard feelings, right, cousin?” he said, holding out a hand.

Something in his tone made Mac think. No hard feelings about what? Coming into Mac’s home unannounced? Or was it directed more on Mac’s part for manhandling Braeburn?

He took the hand and shook it gingerly. “Water under the bridge,” he murmured.

Braeburn nodded. “Well, guess that means it’s time to go.” He headed for the door, grabbing from the rack his coat and signature Stetson, before turning and flashing Ink a smile. “You comin’, darling?”

She didn’t bat an eye at the language, while it caused Mac to blink rapidly. Had Braeburn really just called Ink that?

Regardless, she went over to him, put on her boots, her coat, her gloves—getting all bundled up. Braeburn checked her over, then whistled (here, Mac’s fists clenched, and he quickly released them). “Lookin’ good, Ink.”

“Enough of that,” she said. “Let’s just go, okay?”

“As you wish.” Braeburn smiled again. “We’ll be back in a few, okay, Mac? Don’t you worry none ‘bout this here little lady. I’ll be sure she comes back in one piece.”

“Wh-where are you going?” Mac stuttered.

“I’m gonna teach Ink how to ice skate!” And with that, he and Ink walked out of the house.

Mac shook himself. “H-hey! W-wait!” Rapidly, he crossed the room and tried to pursue them, but they had already hopped into Braeburn’s vehicle and were already driving down the road. The poster remained in Mac’s hands. He looked down at it. It had been crumpled and bent in his fists, for what reason he knew not.

He stared after the receding car, and kept staring long after it had vanished down the road.

“Be honest with me, Granny; are they together?”

Granny’s reply first took form as a pensive frown as she regarded her youngest granddaughter. Apple Bloom mirrored the expression; she’d been mirroring it ever since Braeburn had showed up and had basically commandeered Ink, and she was still mirroring it since the two had left.

Apple Bloom watched Granny as she opened the oven door and checked on the pie. It was found to be decidedly well-prepared—how Granny knew was a bit of a mystery—and so the elderly woman took it out and placed it on top of the stove. “You mean Braeburn and Ink?” she said slowly.

“Mmhmm. Are they?”

Granny Smith let out a sigh. “I’ll be honest, little Bloom. I don’t reckon I know fer sure.” She removed her oven mitts and put them to the side. “Though I think Braeburn might have somethin’ fer our Ink.”

“Ya think?” Apple Bloom handed her the can of whipped cream, which Granny Smith opened and sprayed on top of the pie. “I’m surprised Ink didn’t say anything.”

“Maybe she didn’t know.” Granny Smith gave Bloom a pointed look, one that said: Because she has other things on her mind.

Apple Bloom silently agreed. In the month since Ink’s mother had woken, all had not been well. And this reflected heavily upon the girl they had taken into their home. The spark was truly gone, wasn’t it—the spark that Bloom had seen when they were discussing Ink’s favorite author. All creative endeavors seemed to have dried up, all interest in them having gone away for that girl. And for this reason, Apple Bloom pitied her. But what could she, or anybody, do to help?

“Well… maybe Braeburn will help her feel better.” It was an empty suggestion, but in a time such as this, suggestions were in short supply, so one given was one taken.

Granny Smith grunted. She was doubtful. They all were. And perhaps the most doubtful was Macintosh himself.

He had begun pacing, and Mac never paced. Ever. Apple Bloom could not remember a time when he had even walked around in a circle, looking for an answer between his feet. It was clear that Braeburn and Ink were on his mind; for what reason, well, that could have been anything. Concern? That was the most likely, but if Apple Bloom was being honest, she suspected something akin to jealousy. He had begun pacing once the pair had left, and had yet to stop, though he had transitioned from the living room to out in the backyard.

Sugar Belle was with him. Sugar Belle always was with him. Apple Bloom didn’t like that but she didn’t say anything of that to him.

And all throughout, he was clutching that poster of his—that poster he seemed intent on not giving up. Apple Bloom had thought to ask him about it, but he was always busy pacing, and was also busy murmuring to himself, so she thought it best to ask later.

“Thank you fer helpin’ with the finishin’ touches, Apple Bloom,” Granny Smith said.

“No problem, Granny Smith. Think I’m gonna go rest up in my room, now.”

“You go do that, dear.”

She did, taking her time as she slowly went up the steps and entered her room. The morning light was becoming amber, a sign of the afternoon, and it drifted lazily across her bed. She sat down on the bed, sighing. Briefly she thought again of Mac, then of Ink and Braeburn. Then she pushed those thoughts away. She grabbed the book Ink had lent her; she was nearing the end, she realized a bit sadly.

Another thought. What would Ink have to say about reaching the end of a story? But no; no time for those sentimental notions. Apple Bloom opened the book, got herself comfortable, and began to read.

She lost herself in the pages for some time, before a knock on her doorway alerted her to another’s presence. She glanced up. “Come in,” she called.

Sugar Belle entered. Sugar Belle entered. Apple Bloom bit her lip, a retort bubbling just behind her teeth. The older girl regarded her with a smile, but the smile was obviously strained. Apple Bloom did nothing to hide her displeasure.

“Whaddya want?” she said.

“Mind if I stay a spell?”

“Make yourself at home. Yer already doin’ enough of that.”

The smile slipped off of Sugar Belle’s face. But she didn’t respond. She slowly came in, her arms folded across her chest. Apple Bloom glared at her for a moment, before looking back down at her book.

“You don’t like me,” Sugar Belle said.

“Gee, what gave that away?”

“I know why.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, actually. And I’m not going to try and convince you to like me. That… that isn’t my place.”

Apple Bloom looked up at her, her eyes narrowed. She said nothing.

“Right now, the only person I want to like me is Big Mac,” Sugar Belle said. Her words came slow and neutral. They were carefully chosen, incredibly precise. “And that naturally means that when Mac is upset, I’m upset. I hope you understand that.”

“I understand more than you think.”

Another pause. “Yeah, I guess you do, huh… Well, right now, Mac isn’t okay.”

“He isn’t?” Apple Bloom sat up against her better judgement.

Sugar Belle nodded. “You’ve seen him, haven’t you? Hasn’t been the same since Ink left. I’ve never seen him this way, not even after…”

Her voice was gone but the message was clear; Apple Bloom had the decency not to put it out in the open.

“The point is,” Sugar Belle began again, “he’s concerned about her, and that makes me concerned, too.” Her gaze suddenly lost its strength. Her voice, too, became soft, and behind it, Apple Bloom almost thought there was something close to heartbreak in it. “Apple Bloom, are he and Ink… you know…”

The fact that she couldn’t finish that statement; it shook something in Apple Bloom, shook from her the natural-born cynicism that was bred out of a darker, more painful time that this girl had once been a part of. She put her book down and placed her chin in her hands, gazing at Sugar Belle with less intense eyes.

“Actually,” she said, “as far as I know, they ain’t nothin’ but friends to one another.”

“... Really? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Sugar Belle let out a sigh. Her arms came away from her chest and dangled from her sides. “Oh,” she murmured. “That’s—” Here, Apple Bloom could not hear the rest of the sentence, for the girl’s voice had dropped to near-mute levels. Then nothing.

Here, then, Apple Bloom decided the conversation was over, that Sugar Belle had the answer she needed. She turned back to her book, though felt little inclination to read it any more, so she got up and began to walk out.

Sugar Belle stopped her with a noise. Bloom turned to her. “But why?” she asked.

“Why what?” Bloom replied.

“Why is he like this… to her?”

Bloom stared at the older girl and saw something else there—a child, or at least someone who was younger and more vulnerable than they let on. She saw in her eyes another question, unspoken, but just as loud: Why isn’t he like this to me?

But Bloom didn’t care to answer. She was done with Sugar Belle for now, done with the whole business. She brushed roughly past her. “Why don’t you ask Mac yourself?” she called, leaving the other girl behind.

Chapter Thirty-Three: Dolls and Lies, Mistakes and Time Gone By

She stands alone in a quiet room filled to the brim with toys. Her father has given her much of them. He has pilfered his bank account to give her all of these toys, these dolls and these plastic horse figurines and those tutus and the dollhouses that came with the dolls and the other things, too, things that she has played with once and only once, things that are now coated in dust.

The rest of the room is like that, too. Dust-covered. The only occupants for these several years have been only the toys. Where a bed once was there are now only dolls, only pink and periwinkle-colored stuffed animals and items from whatever toy company might have closed recently. She remembers the curtains, now the color of faded yellow, always being drawn closed, the world outside available only in precious few spurts. There are plastic silverware and tea sets and other things that little girls, herself included, own and had played with, but never with another person and always with her dolls.

She remembers that is how it has always been. Her companions for many of her younger years were these sullen, still, silky figures, who all had different voices and different attitudes but all of which came from the same source. She now walks over to one of those tea sets, a cheap plastic imitation of a real set, and sits down at the tiny chair that is covered in draping cloth. She spots a familiar face. Mr. Elephant. He is sitting opposite of her, the same black top hat that had a little bit of fluff sticking out from a hole that had never been sewn shut sticking out of his head. He stares at her with beady eyes. She remembers playing with him, for he was the first friend her father had given her.

But that is never the case, is it. It is never the case that the first friend remains the first and only friend, and with her father being as rich and as sad as he was it was inevitable that he should go and buy more friends for her, to fill the empty hole that was left in his heart that he hoped to fill with the joy in hers. That is why she always accepted those gifts, even if she secretly hated the Cabbage Patch kids or the Amareican Girl dolls that never quite looked like her. She looks around and sees those kids and dolls and the other animals, all placed to the side, on the bed or desk or drawers. They are all looking at her. Are they judging her as she judges him?

She places a hand on the tea set. She remembers his reasoning for getting her so many: “Little girls love playing with tea!” It was something he read from a single-parent catalogue magazine he had subscribed to for some time. It was in the daughters section, she remembers. He was drawn to those kinds of articles because they provided a quick and easy solution and could anyone blame him? A father may try his hardest but some are just not meant to understand their daughters and if the rift between him and her is large enough then suddenly only gifts seem to be the proper materials with which he can build a bridge across. And gifts speak far louder than does the father, anyway, especially when they have a little string that you can pull and the gift says, “I love you,” in that cheesily high-pitched voice she has come to know and call Mother.

Mother.

The pain will never go away with that word. She knows this and she knows that she wishes it were otherwise. She wishes that things were different. She wishes she had a real mother, not the felt versions that were a quarter of her size and called her “Baby” and not her real name. And she wishes that she had a real father, too, not one who hid behind these gifts as though they were really the product of his love and not his true feelings, that of his discarding of her—

But no. She shakes her head. It is far too late to be bitter, now. Far too late. Maybe if her father were still here she would be able to be bitter towards him, but he is not here so it is pointless to be.

There are footsteps coming up the stairs. They are from her father’s maid, a woman she never knew, a woman whose face was as blank and stoic as the dolls around them, with a voice as condescendingly light as theirs. She looks around, amazed by the sight. She says to her, “He loves you very much, doesn’t he?”

They all say that.

“I know,” she says, because she knows that that is what is expected of her. She knows he loved her; that is the lie that she is forced to tell everyone and herself everyday. She must convince herself of that, so that she can put aside that tragic demon once and for all and move on. She is to know she loved her, but how can she, when she does not know love except in the form of the expressionless dolls and toys and trinkets left to her by a broken man?

“Is everythin’ all right, Sugar Belle?”

Sugar Belle looked up from her coffee, the straw wedged between her lips. She managed a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Honestly, I was going to ask you the same thing, Big Mac. You haven’t been the same since yesterday.”

Mac frowned at her, and she tried not to take it personally. He had been frowning a lot, as of late. It didn’t suit him, but then again, this whole situation didn’t suit anybody. “Yeah, well… it’s been on my mind, that’s fer sure,” he murmured.

She reached out to touch his hand. “Hey. It’s okay. Maybe we should go do something after this. Get your mind off of it.”

He grunted. Her heart sank a little and she brought her hand back. “We shouldn’t be talkin’ ‘bout me,” Mac then said. “I’m concerned about you, Sugar.”

Are you really? “I was just thinking. About my father.”

“How is he?”

“Still old, still cranky and grumpy. Still the same, I suppose.” She sipped her coffee. The taste grew noticeably more bitter, as if a switch had been activated to increase that factor. “But, like I said back then. He’s given me his blessing, even if he’s not particularly thrilled about it. So things are good between him and me.”

Please don’t believe that. Please believe me.

“That’s good to hear,” he said.

“Yeah, it is, isn’t it?”

She looked out the window, at the street, just as how Mac had done so before. “The reason I was thinking about him was because I was also thinking about Ink,” she said.

That got his attention; why did that get his attention? “Ah… huh?”

“You know, because of her mom, and… mine… and yours…”

She had to choose her words carefully, because the topic required it. Mac was a remarkably composed individual when he wanted to be, and she saw now the fruits of that labor; how the spoon he had been stirring his coffee with stopped moving, how his fingers tensed into a fist around its handle. But he let out a breath and all was fine.

She gave a wan smile. “All of us, huh? All of us with this.”

“Eeyup,” he said quietly.

I guess that’s why you feel so much concern for her. Why you felt so much concern for me. She blinked. Why you feel so much concern for me.

“But Mrs. Quill is awake,” he said.

“That she is. Thank goodness. But still, the toll this must have taken on the poor girl… How sad that only a few of us can ever understand it.”

That sort of poetic sentiment came easily, now, because she had years to perfect the craft of turning sorrow into soliloquy; but who would listen and be moved by it, but they who would suffer at the hands of it?

Mac clenched his hand. “The poster was supposed to help, but what if it isn’t enough? What do we do then?”

What do any of us do then? Sugar Belle stared outside and became lost again in her thoughts.

She is young, maybe seven or eight. Her father is a very rich business man in the city. She doesn’t particularly care for that sort of thing, but the money allows her father to buy her things, things that she is supposed to love, and so she is supposed to love him, and she is almost convinced she does. Money buys love. That was the lesson then.

Her passion is in baking, but right now she is not allowed in the company’s kitchen to try her hand at crafting the perfect pie. It is not as though her father did not permit it; rather, he wanted to direct her interests elsewhere. This was his reasoning, but she saw through it. She saw a man haunted by a fear unknown to her, and that was why although he did not expressly say she wasn’t allowed, he did not let her go and create at will. This was why today she was at the company, dressed in formal wear—a miniskirt, suit, and white gloves, if you can imagine.

Right now she is outside her father’s office eating some Animal Crackers. She sits in the little chairs that are always outside these kinds of offices. There is a secretary across the way, busy with whatever is on her computer, her face a neutral frown, her fingers typing, her eyes darkened with lack of sleep and passion. The secretary has not looked up since she has arrived, and she doubts she ever will. There is a young, well-dressed man sitting in another row of seats. He flashes her a smile, but his face is all worn and nervous, and she does not smile back, because she does not think her father would approve.

Inside there is her father and another man. She can hear them through the walls, but the words are confusing and long. Something about altercations, payments, money-laundering scheme, pyramids. Taking company profits down the drain. There is shouting—but she is used to this. Her father is a loud shouter. He could win tournaments with that kind of voice just as much as he could buy out toy stores. The other man is shouting, too, but his voice is not as loud as her father’s. He would lose, she decides, if he tried to enter the same tournament. Many would. Many must.

“Pack your bags,” her father shouts. More shouting, then a slew of bad words and desk-slamming. The well-dressed man flinches, but she does not move. She eats her Animal Crackers, finishes the bag, then throws the bag away and still sits there, waiting.

The door bursts open. The other man is running away, his face burning, her father’s voice trailing after him like an angry ghost. “Get out and don’t you come back!” he shouts. He is fond of that phrase.

He turns to the well-dressed man there. “Ah, Harvest. Just the fellow I wanted to see.”

“Y-yessir?”

“How would you like being head of our Executive Department? I believe it requires a strong leadership role, and unlike that half-ass twit Pomegranate, I think you’d fit the job. What do you say?”

“Thank you, sir,” Harvest stammers.

Her father smiles wide, then. It is a smile that is disarmingly honest. “Good, good,” he says. Then he turns to her, the smile still there. “Let this be a lesson, Ink: if you don’t like something or someone, you can dispose of them and get someone better. It’s how the world is run, you know.”

Then he takes Harvest in an arm. “Now, let us discuss further what is expected of you, young man.” He leads him into the office, where there is no shouting. Later there would be clinking glasses as the two drink to a toast.

Harvest lasted in the position for less than three months. She watched him start off fresh and then peter off at the end until nothing remained but a dull shell of a human being. And her father’s words echoed in her mind the day he was let go: “If you don’t like someone, you can dispose of them and get someone better.”

It is how the world is run, you know.

“I don’t suppose you have any ideas how to convince Ink to take this opportunity?” Mac said. He was very articulate, Sugar Belle noted; more articulate than when they first met, even more than when they had been dating the first time. Something had changed. Either he had eaten dictionaries since then, or he had decided to open up more.

“A few,” she said, “but they’re not as concrete as simply giving her the poster and explaining what it means.”

Mac winced. “Eeyup… well, that’s harder than it looks, Sugar Belle.”

Sugar Belle sipped her coffee. “I know, Mac. I know.”

“It’s just…” He was rambling now, and she let him. “With her and Braeburn together, things feel weird. Complicated, I guess. I dunno why, but it sorta feels like Braeburn doesn’t want me and Ink to talk.” He frowned, then shook his head. “Naw, that can’t be it. Must be my mind playing tricks on me.”

Sugar Belle didn’t say anything. Her napkin seemed very interesting all of a sudden. Let him talk. Let him talk and then you will have a chance.

Big Mac sighed. He pushed his drink away from him, then brought his hands together. “Ah’m sorry, Sugar Belle,” he drawled. “I’m jus’ getting distracted again, ain’t I?”

“A little,” she admitted. “Besides, it’s not like you can force the girl, can you? And it wouldn’t be right to do so. She has to come to this on her own, without you shoving it in her face.”

He winced at her choice of words. Her eyes softened. “You mean well, Big Mac. You always did, and gosh, there isn’t a single soul out there who is as well-meaning as you, I don’t think. But you can’t let that get ahead of you, okay? Especially when the person you want to do good by isn’t… well, isn’t exactly in a position to receive it.”

He nodded. “Eeyup. I guess yer right, Sugar.” Then he forced a smile. “Well. How about we finish this here meal and go out for a bit?”

Sugar Belle nodded, also smiling. “Now there’s a fine idea, Big Mac.”

They paid the bill—60-40, as usual—and then went out again. It was late in the afternoon when they came out, and Canterlot was still busy. They didn’t want to have to walk through the crowds, so they got into Big Mac’s truck and began driving towards the park that was in the center of the city. They drove in silence, taking pleasure in mere company. Or at least, Sugar Belle tried to. She could see in Mac’s eyes that his mind was occupied with other things, and she hadn’t the full heart to try and bring him back to her.

She just wondered why.

In the April of that year she had made a mistake. It was a wet April, one of the wettest of that year, and she had foolishly decided to step out without so much as a coat, even as her father had warned her that it would likely rain. She thought this as nonsense, for the sky had been clear and cloudless and the air was warm. It was not rain weather, she had decided, so she had gone out in merely a blouse and a skirt, gone out against her father’s wishes for her to stay home, gone out because she had needed to go out and be alone.

She had gone to the park that was on the outskirts of Canterlot, where a single tree stood, where the benches were the color of red apples and the paths were always flat and filled with dirt. She did not really care for this earthly thing but that did not mean she could not enjoy nature at its finest. So now she is walking around the park and the park is green and the sky is clear and she is breathing it all in because she can and must. All the while she is thinking about her father, about what he keeps saying and what he has said before, and she does not know which piece to take and keep.

She hears a boom and thinks nothing of it— until, that is, she hears the pitter-patter of raindrops coming from the north. There is no time for her to run for cover before she is drenched in a flood’s worth of water. She stands in shock for a moment as the cold seeps its way into her skin, and suddenly she remembers she isn’t wearing any underwear, and that her blouse was a foolishly chosen white. There are people in the park who are running away, people who most likely would not see, but she blushes fiercely and covers her chest and runs for the tree.

There are boys at the edge of the park who are staring at her as she stares at them, her arms over her chest and her hair matted and flat. She can see them jeering, see them pointing. She wishes they would come over so she could give them a piece of her mind. Boys will be boys, she thinks. It is something she wonders if her father might say. The boys watch and they make their calls and intentions known and she does not respond to any of them, and so they are made bored and turn away.

It is still raining now and she cannot get out of the tree’s cover without getting drenched. So she stands rooted in place and is cursing the sky.

That is when he comes.

He comes unbidden and without an aura of latent desire that she has seen in so many others who sought her hand or her father’s approval. He comes quickly and with a parasol with strawberry patterns on it, and he beckons her out from under the tree. He has a coat on, and when he sees that her blouse has been soaked, he is quick to take it off and hand it to her. “Put this on,” he says. She notices he is looking at her eyes. No one else would look at her eyes; certainly not those boys from before. She puts it on and turns around so that she can put it on without revealing herself and he is polite enough to simply wait and turn so that he isn’t looking either.

“Who are you?” she asks when she finishes.

“Big Mac,” he answers kindly. He has a southern drawl to his voice, which is as deep as surely the ocean is deep, cliche as she knows that sounds. He shuffles on his feet, the umbrella out but his voice unable to form. She realizes he is asking her if she would like to take the umbrella. She takes it.

She does not run off, though her first instinct was to. No, instead she loops her hand around the umbrella’s handle, and then the same hand grabs Big Mac by the arm. “Walk with me?” she asks.

He stutters. Stammers. “Please,” she says.

He relents. He is blushing just as much as she is. But together they manage to walk out of that park. He walks her home, too, because that’s just the kind of person Big Mac is, the kind to make your life more convenient when he can.

It is later that they meet up and it is then that she decides she wants him, and it is then that she asks him out and it is then that he returns home with a happy smile, utterly surprised by what has happened while she, too, is indeed happy, but right now all she can think about is how he has done so much for her without asking for anything in return, and how he has done all this simply because it is who he is, and she is confused by this but does not ask what more he wants. She is content to simply walk with him home. She is so content that she completely ignores her father’s questioning look. She takes a shower and thinks of Big Mac, then.

They came to the park. The park was there.

“This is where we first met,” she said softly. “Do you remember? Under the tree? It was raining, you know.”

“I remember,” Mac said. “You were just a scared new girl, then, weren’t you? Just moved here.”

Mac stopped the car. They came out and began walking towards the tree. Sugar Belle held out a hand. Mac didn’t take it at first. She touched him, and then he took it.

The park was silent. The weather was still cold and not many folk wanted to be out and about in the park during this time. The path to the tree was therefore free and so they walked unabated.

And we began dating not long after, Sugar Belle thought.

They stopped at the base of the tree and looked up. The tree was old. It was twisted, too, though not unpleasantly. Right now it had no leaves, but some people had hung little orange lights from the branches for decoration. In the late hour of this day those lights were glowing dimly.

“It’s pretty,” she said.

“Eeyup.” Always so simple, Big Mac. You could give him the whole world like she had tried and he’d ask only for a single flower from it.

When she looked at him, his eyes were on the tree, but his mind was also elsewhere. Wrestling with the problem that was Ink. She stared at him for a moment longer, and then sighed, softly so that he wouldn’t hear. Slipping her hand away, she brought it up to his shoulder. “How did you and Ink meet, by the way?” she asked.

There was a flash of light behind his eyes, and he was back with her once more. He smiled. “It’s kinda funny, actually…”

His eyes were alight as he told this tale. Alight as they had once been for her. She tried to convince herself that it was the same now as it was then, but just like the dolls and the “I love you’s” that came from them, the conviction was weak and hollow.

It’s the night of her last mistake. At the time it was a mistake, but in the future she would vow to make no more of those.

Her father’s words have come to haunt her. She is playing with different dolls, too; dolls that are as alive as you and I. The playing comes easily, because the dolls are usually unaware of what she is doing with them. But on this particular night the dolls came to life and now she is forced to live with this mistake.

She leaves her room, her hair a mess, the blanket brought with her. There is shuffling. A window opens and the other occupant leaves that way. It is later that she learns he is hit by a car, driven to the hospital, where he spends the next several years in a coma. It is a mistake she will never live down.

She comes down the stairs, now, still a mess. There is wetness in her eyes. It mirrors the wetness outside.

She calls his name but receives no answer. She thinks he has gone, and her heart goes cold and still as she finally reaches the floor. She says she can explain, even though she knows she can’t. She still loves him. The words come out as though she were a doll with the string being pulled. Who is pulling her? Her father? No, she has stopped blaming him. She has only herself to blame.

But she lets out a breath of relief, for she sees he is still in the home. She wants to say we can fix this, that it’s okay, it was a little mistake, nothing a little bit of alone-time can fix. But he is unresponsive to her approaching him. His back is turned, and his form is hulking and hunched and it is filled with rage that she can fill blistering off of him.

When he turns, the anger flashes on, and then off, and then there are his eyes, and she is lost in them. She is lost in them and there in them is a sea of infinite sadness and shock. A cold knife of betrayal cuts through her; it is not because she is the one who is betrayed. There are no words. She stops, the blanket nearly falling from her body, the body she has only shown one person, and it is not the one who stands in front of her.

There is a silent question on his lips. She comes forward, a hand outstretched. She tries for the smile that she knows once won her his heart.

He flinches back. Her arm falls. Is it over? Oh, yes, it is. Oh, no, please. Please don’t let it be so.

Her apology is lost on him. It is lost on her, too. It is as though she never said it, as though she simply cannot bring it to life. He turns, and runs into the darkness of the rainy night, and she knows she has lost him.

“If you don’t like someone, you can dispose of them and get someone better.” She would not think, until later, how she became that someone for him.

Chapter Thirty-Four: Confused Hearts

“You and Braeburn? Get out.”

“I will, thanks.” And Ink turned to leave.

Hazel dragged her back. “I was joking!”

“So was I. We’re not dating, girls, honestly.”

Gaige regarded her with an intense stare. “Ink, we’re not going to fall for that. You suddenly pick up a new guy friend after both Artifex and Mac have been crossed out, and you expect us not to think you two are together?”

Ink rolled her eyes. “First of all: Artifex and me? Never happened. Second of all: Mac? I don’t know what you’re talking about. And third of all: you said it yourself. A new guy friend. That’s Braeburn, no matter how you look at it.”

“Right.”

“It’s true. Look, I didn’t give you flack over Neon, did I? So how about you don’t give me any about Braeburn?”

Gaige threw up her hands. “Fine, fine.”

“What did happen to that guy, anyway?” Hazel asked.

“Dunno,” Gaige said. “Ragga probably tossed him after my story finished.”

“Uh huh.”

Gaige glanced back at Ink. “But back to the topic at hand: I have to say, Ink. You are looking a lot better now. Have you been putting on makeup?”

Ink shrugged. “A little, not a lot. I thought I’d try something new.”

“For Braeburn—ow!”

“I told you, cut it out!” Ink laughed. “God, you girls are the worst!”

She saw them both looking at her strangely. Her smiled remained. She hoped they wouldn’t see how strained it was.

It was the end of the school day, the middle of the week, a Wednesday like no other; and to say Ink was cheerful was an understatement. She had been positively glowing all throughout the week, today being no different, and this had been noticed by her friends almost immediately. Of course that brought speculation, and the moment she started talking about new developments, there came the teasing, and that brought them to here.

“Still,” Hazel sighed as they walked out of Canterlot High, “if we’re the worst, well, what does that make you, since you’re our friend and everything?”

“Better,” Ink said.

“Just as bad,” Gaige said at the same time. She gave the writer girl an appraising look. “Wow. You are stupidly cheesy. You sure it isn’t because of Braeburn?”

“It isn’t,” Ink replied. “I don’t know why I feel so cheery, honestly. Maybe it’s just one of those days.”

“Maybe,” Gaige said dubiously.

They approached and then exited the open steel gate and stepped out into the open streets while the throngs of students followed in their wake. They stopped outside of the wall there. The parking lot was filled with screeching tires as cars and trucks and buses came and went, and Ink noticed that Mac’s truck wasn’t there—but she noted this without enthusiasm, nor without dejection. It was a surprisingly warm February day, a sharp contrast to what previous days had offered, and this was reflected very much in the attitudes of the departing students.

Though not, of course, in the attitudes of Ink’s companions, who were still regarding her with looks of concern and incredulity. They could not be blamed, she knew, but she wished they would simply let her be.

“You guys have any homework?” Gaige asked them. “Because I don’t— not like Ragga would give his OCs homework just to fill a chapter or anything.”

“Not me,” Hazel said, and so did Ink. “Why are you asking?”

“Well, I’ve got nothing better to do,” Gaige said, shrugging, “so I thought why don’t we head to the mall and shoot the breeze?”

Hazel brightened. “Can we go dress-shopping? Can we get you a dress?”

“I will deck you—what about you, Ink? Wanna come?”

“I’d love to,” Ink said, “but—”

Vrroom, vvvvrrrr... “Eep!”

“Heya, Ink! You ready?”

Three pairs of eyes went saucer-wide as they regaled the boy who rode towards them. Braeburn had replaced his typical cowboy getup with a leather jacket and a red helmet. He took off the helmet, revealing a dazzling smile so white it reflected the crimson motorbike he was riding. It seemed to snort at them with black smoke coming out of the exhaust, glowing red eyes in front blinking as he came to a stop.

“That’s yours?” Hazel’s eyes might have fallen out of her head for how big they had gotten.

“Eeyup!” Braeburn said. “Now, come on, this thing ain’t exactly cheap on the gas!”

“But, Gaige and Hazel—”

“No time for them, baby. We got daylight to kill!”

Braeburn handed her the extra helmet, and she put it on before settling back behind him. She looked to her friends, managing another smile. “Sorry, girls. Maybe we can do the mall another day?”

“Sure, no problem,” Gaige said. But she wasn’t smiling.

In between Braeburn revving the bike and them leaving, Ink heard one girl mutter to the other, “What’s up with her?” And then, they shot off.

She was glad that they had left before the girls had seen her smile slip away.

She had visited her mother numerous times since that day. She has grown numb to the nothingness that comes with those hospital visits. Sometimes she is driven by others, such as Adagio or Sunset as of late, but she has always gone in alone at her own request. She cannot bear to let someone else see her in pain.

The hospital is always the same: cold, white, smelling of ammonia and sickness and stillness. She enters the ICU and is greeted, as always, by the same sounds. Beeping monitors, heart rates fluctuating. Once she heard someone flatlining, followed by the shock of defibrillators. That person was saved. Or was he? He was still in a catatonic state and the nurses now do not know yet of when he might wake up.

She goes alone, too, because a part of her thinks the reason her mother doesn’t recognize her is because she is surrounded by too many people. She thinks that if she can get her mother to focus solely on her it will trigger her memories and all will be well. It is a notion she shared with Nurse Golding, who frowned at that but didn’t refute it; perhaps she knew Ink needed this small smidgen of hope, however disbelieving and illogical it was.

It is also a smidgen that cannot be applied now. You see, Ink’s mother has fallen ill again. It is to be expected; her body is wracked by shivers, and though the hospital does its best to stay clean, there are small illnesses in the body that can surge up on a weakened person and make them worse. The medication she takes into her arm do nothing for her fever. They make her sleepy and that is good because it means she doesn’t need to exert so much energy and so she can recover passively, but that is bad because now she is sick with other things beyond brain damage and they take a physical toll on her. They cannot give her other medication for fear of creating further complications with the medication she already has, so her mother is forced to struggle alone against the fevers and aches.

The fevers, Ink reflects, are the worst. One time when she was at the hospital her mother had to wear an inflatable cold pillow over her face because she was so hot, but at the same time her lower body is constantly cold. So she wore two layers of hospital blankets, the kind that is like paper, but that made her uncomfortable and so she was thrashing about, moaning into her breathing apparatus. It was hard to watch and do nothing.

But Ink goes anyway to watch and do nothing because she hopes that her presence alone will bring her mother back to her, even though it never seems to work. Her mother remains in a sleeping state, and when she is awake, it is very brief and unfocused. She says nothing, moans and groans more. The medication is messing with her head to heal her but when had that ever made any sense?

Still she goes. She waits alone as the nurses do their best to make her mother comfortable, in a ward filled with the dying—reminders of what might be.

She does not tell and will not tell anyone of what she has seen, how her mother has gotten worse. When she is ready she will go into that room with others and they will see and perhaps that is a time that is shortly coming but she doesn’t know. Let them see nothing so that maybe she can believe nothing is wrong. This is not logic. It is desperation.

For how would her friends react when they learn her mother has suffered three other seizures since entering the hospital? How would they react knowing that her life continues to hang in the balance? And how would they react to knowing that Ink has become so numb to it?

What is important is to smile, she thinks to herself in private. Smile, because it’s a good mask. Don’t let them see the pain. Maybe if you give them hope that you are okay you will be okay. This is not logic either. It is desperation again.

There is a fine line between that and hope, Ink thinks. When does one become the other? Maybe when you have lost everything or have gained something. That is when desperation becomes hope or hope becomes desperation. How long can you last with either? How long can either work as masks or as farses or as illusions made in the other’s image? She doesn’t know. But she hopes and is desperate anyway and her mother worsens and Ink is smiling because she doesn’t want the world to know what of her pain but what does that matter anyway?

Not logic. Desperation.

“You’re kinda quiet back there, Ink,” Braeburn was saying. “Whatcha thinking about?”

Ink blinked from behind her helmet. They were in the acceleration lane, going past the sedans and SUVs. They were heading to the park, Braeburn had said while they had been driving off. She wondered what they were going to do.

“I was thinking about what Big Mac—” she replied, but he was quick to interrupt: “Ah, him, that brute? Yeah, I mean, after he basically throttled me— well, don’t you worry ‘bout your boy Braeburn. Mac might be big, but he ain’t too hard to topple, believe you me!”

She looked at him, confused. “... I was going to say, about what Big Mac had said.”

“Oh, right. The poster?” Braeburn, ever unphased, turned down the road.

She had seen the poster when Mac had barged into the home and lifted Braeburn off of his feet, but she hadn’t said anything. She had actually seen the poster before. It had even crossed her mind to enter, but the chances…

“Maybe you should enter,” Braeburn said. “The worst that could happen is that they reject you.”

She nodded, frowning. Mac had sort of said the same thing, but he’d shown a lot more faith in her, hadn’t he?

The chances were slim, though. When Mac had showed her the poster yesterday—it had been on his mind for a while, she had realized, when he been talking feverishly about it—she had told him this. “There are a lot of kids who want to write,” she had said. “A lot of them who aren’t in Canterlot but who are in those other cities. My chances of placing are low, Mac.”

She had seen the way his face had fallen, and she had felt guilty for saying it; she felt more guilty for believing it. Still, that hadn’t stopped him from hiding the poster on her laptop, which she had found this morning.

That was the Mac she had come to know: always so willing to believe much in someone.

But how could she explain to him that she had no desire to write anymore? Even if he thought she had a chance, the document was gone. More importantly, she hated it. If she hated her work then she would not submit it, because it was a hated thing, and you would not show the world something that you absolutely detested. Not unless you were crazy.

… yet she had taken the poster and had placed it next to her laptop, which she now left in the Apple home, unwilling to open it, but always keeping it close. Maybe… but also maybe not.

They passed the city and wound down the dirt trail that led to the park. Braeburn drove up the trail, then turned into the small parking lot at the side. He parked. The engine died down and they got off the bike. There were some cars here, and also a lingering food court down a ways.

“So,” Ink said. “What are we doing here?”

Braeburn smiled, wagging a finger. “Ah, ah! No questions! We’re just gonna walk around and let things develop naturally.”

God, that was cheesy. She didn’t say anything, just nodded and came off the bike with him.

They left the bike and began to walk the trail, following the dirt path as it wound around that the meadow. They approached the singular oak tree that stood in the middle of the park. Braeburn’s hand came out, but Ink didn’t take it, instead looking at that tree. There were still parts of the city—or rather the outskirts—that she had never really explored, and this was one of them. So they stopped their walk and looked at the tree in silence.

Braeburn was looking at her, though. She could feel it. She turned to him, an eyebrow raised. “What?”

He looked away quickly; he was blushing. “N-nothing. Uh… cool tree you guys got here.”

“Yeah.” She returned to looking at the tree. “I wonder who planted it?”

They were still standing there when the blue truck drove in, when two people got out, and even when those same two people came around the other side and saw them standing there.

Braeburn was the first to turn around. He let out a start. “M-Mac?!”

“Braeburn?!”

Ink turned next, saw Mac and Sugar Belle, and did not start. “Oh. Hello,” she said.

Sugar Belle waved, her smile small. Mac glanced at Ink, then at Braeburn. His eyes narrowed for a moment, before he let out a sigh. “Ah, well… I guess this place is a little popular, ain’t it?”

“It’s not like you own it, Cousin. I have half the mind to think you were here ‘cause of Ink.”

They stood there for a period of silence, the boys bristling, Ink quiet and confused, all of them beneath the shadow of that oak tree.

Then, suddenly, Sugar Belle clapped her hands. “Well!” she said, her smile coming off as forced. “I’m rather hungry. Mac, there’s a food cart down there; do you see it? Could you grab us something?”

“Uh—Eeyup?”

“Oh, and… Braeburn, right? Why don’t you get something for Ink as well?”

“I’ll ask her,” he snapped. He turned to her. “You mind if I go grab us something?”

“No, it’s fine, go ahead.” He didn’t appear like he wanted to leave her. She flashed him a smile. “I’ll be fine,” she said, though why that phrase in particular she didn’t know.

The two boys went, leaving the two girls beneath the shadow of the tree. Ink found Sugar Belle looking at her intensely. She had her arms crossed, and seemed intent on looking everywhere but her at the moment. Ink cleared her throat, mostly to fill the ensuing silence.

Finally, the other girl did look at her. In her eyes was an emotion Ink did not expect to see: trepidation. She opened her mouth, then closed it, and looked away once more.

Ink glanced over her shoulder. Mac and Braeburn were distant dots, haggling with the food cart and pooling their resources. They would be back soon.

She heard Sugar Belle sigh, making Ink look back at the other girl. Sugar Belle then giggled softly. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just… I want to say something but I don’t know how to put it.”

Her arms came away and dangled at her sides, before coming up behind her and locking fingers. “I feel as though we didn’t really get off to the best start,” she began, looking up at the leaves. “And I feel that’s partially my fault. I sort of did push you out, didn’t I?”

Ink thought about it. “A little, I guess. But I didn’t take offense, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“That’s good.” Another sigh. “I was worried, you know, because of… well, maybe you don’t know. Maybe that’s for the best.” Before Ink could question her, she pressed on: “You and Mac have known each other for a while now, haven’t you?”

“... yes.”

“A few months. Right?”

“Uh huh.”

Sugar Belle nodded. She still wasn’t looking at her. “I’ve known him for a few years. We met when I first came to Canterlot. We met right under this tree, actually.”

“Oh. So… this is kind of like an anniversary place for you guys, then.” Saying this brought a bitter taste to Ink’s mouth, a taste she tried to ignore.

“A little, sure. I… hope that isn’t a bother to you.”

“Why would it?” A quick response, but perhaps its quickness gave away its falsity.

Sugar Belle nonetheless didn’t pressure her to explain, instead choosing to step a little out to the side. She looked down the road, where Mac and Braeburn still were. Her mouth worked its way into a frown. “He cares for you, you know,” she said. Her voice was so quiet it was almost lost in the little breeze that made its way through the branches of the oak tree above.

“He… he does?” Ink asked.

Sugar Belle nodded. “Oh yes, he does. Don’t act like you haven’t noticed.” This came out biting, vitriol, and Belle winced. “Sorry. It’s just… it’s kind of obvious. The poster should have given you a clue, at least.”

“My mother—”

“I know.”

Sugar Belle turned to her. The look of uncertainty had passed from her eyes, now replaced with something else, something murkier. “He talks about you and your mother constantly,” she murmured. “He’s scared for her, for you. He truly, truly wants the best for you, Ink. You should count yourself lucky he pays attention to you that much.”

Ink stared at her. “Sugar Belle, are you saying—”

“I’m saying you hold a special place in his heart,” she said. Her gaze hardened. “I just don’t know how much space is in there, if there’s room enough for…”

She let the thought hang, but the implication was clear: room enough for the two of them.

At once, all of Ink’s confusing feelings returned. It was a terrific mix of apprehension, joy, bewilderment, and pain. She actually took a step back as they struck her at once. “W-what?” she could only say.

Sugar Belle nodded, and her gaze softened. “Listen. I don’t… I don’t want there to be anything bad between us. I’ve made enough mistakes as it is. I’m trying to own up to them, even now.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No, I guess you don’t. I guess that’s okay. It’s not something you’re supposed to understand.” She paused. “The point is, Big Mac is with me now. And… if that’s okay with you, I’d like it to stay that way, maybe for even a little while.”

She tried for a smile. “No, I see that also doesn’t really make sense. Maybe none of this does. You know, the heart is a finicky thing. Sometimes it wants things so badly that it hurts itself. But I suppose I don’t really have to be too worried. You’re with Braeburn now, anyway. He’s a nice guy.”

“I’m not… he and I aren’t…”

“Shh, now. Here they come. And thank you for listening, Ink.”

Listening to what? But Ink would not have her answer. The boys came back with their food, and when they saw the two of them standing there, one with a tired smile, the other with a shocked expression, they stopped.

“Something wrong, Ink?” Mac asked. Out of the corner of her eye, Ink saw Sugar Belle tense.

“I don’t think so,” Ink replied.

But in truth, she didn’t know what to think.

Chapter Thirty-Five: Haircuts and Heartstrings

Of course what Sugar Belle said remained on Ink’s mind. Of course it did. Why the hell wouldn’t it have? Of all the lamebrain, random, volatile things to throw out in the open…

Did the girl want to fight her? No, Sugar Belle didn’t seem like the type. Was she jealous? Maybe. But she was dating Mac, so what difference did that make?

Who are you trying to convince? Her, or yourself?

She was sitting at her desk again, staring out of the open windows into the fields below. The laptop was still closed. She made no move to open it, nor to work on the document, nor to really do anything with it— it was simply there because she had no other place to put it. With the windows open the sun was streaming through them. The snow was melting and dirt was beginning to show. It was a good Thursday afternoon, a freed one, and she had done all her homework so she had nothing left to do but sit here.

Gaige and Hazel were busy so she couldn’t hang out with them. She thought about visiting her mother, but did not know if she really wanted to see that which she had seen seemingly a hundred times before. And Mac… Mac was gone with Sugar Belle. Sugar Belle, who had been the one to say all that…

Ink shook her head. They were just words. It didn’t matter what Sugar Belle said. Even if Ink had no idea why she had even bothered saying it.

She leaned back into her chair, sighing. But what was she to do, then? It was Thursday, but the hour was already slipping by. Soon it would be dark and then the day would be done.

She heard knocking on her door. “Come in,” she called.

“Er, hi, Ink.” That was Apple Bloom. Turning in her seat, Ink saw the bow-tied girl with her hands clamped together in front of her demurely.

“Oh, hello, Apple Bloom. What’s up?”

“Oh… nothing.” She leaned back and forth on her toes, looking everywhere around the room. “I, uh, see you’ve done some home decorating.”

Ink followed her gaze. She hadn’t really done much; cleaned up the dressers, moved the bed a little to the side. She’d taken a flyer of the Rainbooms performing and pinned it to one of the walls, just to make up for the drab appearance.

“A little,” she agreed. “It… helps, sometimes.”

“Uh huh.”

Still Apple Bloom glanced around. Once she had finished, she gazed then at Ink. “Yer, uh, hair’s gotten pretty long, don’tcha think?”

Ink brought a hand up and felt her hair. It had been growing like a weed, as of late. Whereas days before it was just touching her shoulders, now it was starting to grow past them. It was an odd thing, feeling it touch her bare shoulders. Sometimes it felt like she was wearing a different person’s wig.

“It’s longer than usual,” she murmured. Instantly she remembered the hospital, her mother waking up, the pain.

Apple Bloom continued to rock back and forth on her feet. Ink looked away, looked back out the window, at the dirt fields, at the path that circled through dead trees to where that sole tree stood always. She wondered if the tree was looking back.

“Can I cut it?” Apple Bloom blurted.

“Can you… what?”

When Ink turned around, she saw Apple Bloom blushing furiously. “I was just… uh… you know,” the poor girl stammered, “because it’s so long and I think you’d look better with short hair—uh, not that you look worse with long hair, just—well, I mean…”

Her voice fell into distant murmurs. Ink watched her carefully. “You want to cut it,” she said slowly, as if she couldn’t believe the suggestion had been made.

Wordlessly, Apple Bloom nodded.

“Okay.”

“Really?!”

“Sure. I mean, it shouldn’t be too hard to cut it down to the right length, if you have the right tools—”

She was dragged suddenly into the bathroom by the now invigorated girl, her arm nearly being pulled out of its socket with how enthusiastic Apple Bloom was. A seat had already been set up with a stool taken from the kitchen, and here Ink sat down, her hands naturally folding into her lap. Apple Bloom draped a blanket around her shoulders (“A blanket?” Ink asked, to which Bloom replied, “We didn’t have no fancy barber cloaks.”) and fastened it to her.

“This is great!” Apple Bloom exclaimed. “Y’know, my cousin Babs Seed wants to cut hair someday.”

“Really?”

“Yeah! She’s pretty good at it, too! And I always wanted to try it out, at least a little…”

“So you wanted to test it on someone not from your family?”

Apple Bloom started. “That wasn’t—”

Ink cut her off, giggling slightly. “I was joking, Apple Bloom. It’s fine. Besides, my hair is easy, and if you mess up or cut off too much, it’ll all grow back and then maybe you can try again.”

Here, the younger girl brightened. “Oh, okay! I’ll get started then, just hold still!”

She must have been taught by her cousin very well, Ink found herself thinking shortly after Apple Bloom had started. She had expected a few cuts, some scrapes, an awkward hand with scissors, but to her surprise the younger girl handled herself as a semi-professional hairdresser. This Babs Seed must have been one heck of a teacher.

“So just short, right?”

“Yeah,” Ink managed to say, coming out of her reprieve. Apple Bloom nodded, then brought the scissors behind and began her work once more.

For the most part they were both quiet. A radio was playing soft music in some other area of the home, and with the open window in the bathroom, they could hear some birds chirping.

“So… you and Braeburn have been getting real chummy lately.”

Ink raised an eyebrow. “Everyone seems to think so.”

“But isn’t that how it is? Like, you two have been on dates and all that, right?”

“A… few, I guess.” In truth she wouldn’t have classified any of what they had done as “dates.” They hadn’t even really been out to dinner. Not like how she and Mac had, anyway.

Apple Bloom nodded, coming over to her side and brushing her hair with the comb. “He’s a nice guy, ain’t he?”

“Yeah, he is.”

“But not as nice as Mac.”

If Ink had been drinking something, she would have spat it out, and she was lucky to have the diligence not to jump out of her chair in shock. “Uh,” she said.

Apple Bloom didn’t give her a chance to talk further. “I mean, sure, Braeburn’s a real nice guy, but he don’t compare to Mac, I don’t think. Like, Braeburn would give you the time of day, sure. Most guys if they’re good would, wouldn’t they? But Mac’s different. He don’t talk much but he makes his silence mean something. I think that makes him very nice, don’t you?”

She was smiling at her in the mirror’s reflection. Ink chewed her bottom lip. “They’re both very nice,” she said carefully.

“Uh huh! Y’know, I bet that if I had two guys like that pining for me, I wouldn’t be as calm about it as you are.”

Ink stumbled forward, nearly falling off of the stool. “W-What?!”

Bloom pulled her back. She was grinning, but a bit sheepishly; a secret had been revealed. “Yyeah, sorry. I kinda thought you already knew. At least Braeburn, you know, cuz he’s so obvious about it.”

Ink struggled to regain her composure. “W-well, it had crossed my mind that maybe… but that’s besides the point— Big Mac?”

“The one and only!”

“You’re kidding me, Apple Bloom. He’s… he wouldn’t—” And then she hit upon a solid epiphany. “He’s with Sugar Belle right now!”

It was solid, all right; solid as concrete is solid before the river overtakes it and shatters it to pieces. For as soon as the words exited her mouth, they filled her being with a sudden painfulness, flowing all into and around her.

This effect was missed by Apple Bloom, though, for her face had darkened and she had to look momentarily away. “Yeah, I guess he is, ain’t he?” she mumbled.

Another unanswered topic. One that Ink decided was now worth exploring. Still, Bloom’s obvious discomfort made her uneasy. She remembered those many nights before, when Applejack had first spoken of the Belle girl. It was perhaps a family secret. Could Ink really ask for it to be revealed? Or was it better to let old things be? What could she choose?

In the period of silence that was shared between them, Ink made her decision.

“Apple Bloom… what happened between Sugar Belle and Big Mac?”

She regretted instantly bringing those words out. The darkness in Boom’s face deepened, her face making long lines that should have been impossible for a girl her age to have—they were the lines that only those who had faced some sort of incredible trauma could ever manage to create. But in the darkness shone her eyes, bright and fierce and intense, shining with passion and anger as memories danced before her.

“Nothing good,” she said, echoing the words Applejack had uttered seemingly aeons ago.

She put the scissors down. She began to peel back the pain, one sentence at a time.

Sugar Belle and Mac were in downtown Canterlot, where the shops were smaller but the sights were just as splendid. They were passing the many shops there that were open and had their Valentine’s Day specials going on when Sugar Belle stopped them both in front of a certain store. It was a small store, with not many customers inside at this hour, but it had piqued her interest anyway. “Let’s go in there,” she said to Mac, and they went in.

“Welcome!” the store owner greeted, a young lady of pure white skin and cerulean eyes that seemed to dance at each step she took towards them. “How might I be of service today?

“Er, we just wanna look around first, if that’s all right with you,” Mac said, caught off guard by the woman’s excitement.

“That’s perfectly fine! Please let me know if you need anything or if you have any questions!” Then she returned to helping another customer.

This was a milliner shop. It sold hats that were custom-made, and the styles were wide and varied. While Mac appeared a little lost, here Sugar Belle at least knew a little. She let her fingers linger across the fedoras and bowlers and trilbies, the top hats and flats, the wide and short ones. She stepped into another aisle while Mac wandered aimlessly behind her. She was happy to have him close, to have him knowing she was still there, still the center of his attention, as things should have been.

She stopped to admire one of the cloches. “What do you think of this one, Mac?” she asked. She didn’t really think he would have an opinion, but this was something couples did, she figured, asking each other their opinion even if the opinion didn’t really matter. Really she was just happy to include him.

“Er… it looks nice, Sugar Belle.” He was distracted by some other hats whose names he probably didn’t know. She put the cloche back, sighing a little. Her mind wandered.

She, as she had always done ever since yesterday, thought back to what she had said to Ink. Had it been too much, too intense? She really meant no harm to the girl; in fact, she rather liked her. If they had to know each other more, she figured they might have even been something resembling friends. But as it stood, she was a distraction for her Big Mac, and she needed to be reminded that he was with her, Sugar Belle. At least, that was the justification Sugar Belle had come up with, and at the time, she believed it. But now, twenty-four hours later, she couldn’t be so sure.

She glanced back at Mac and smiled when she saw him still looking at the hats. This was what she did to regain her convictions. He was hers, and so long as that was the case, then everything would be fine. Indeed, everything would be fine, so long as things remained as they were now. She turned away and returned to looking over the wares.

Mac mumbled something to himself. She didn’t catch it. “What was that?” she called.

“Aw, it was nothin’,” he said. “Jus’ thinking to myself ‘bout something.”

“What, about the hats?”

“Yeah, about the hats.”

She could have giggled. Oh, she had missed this. Him following her as if led by a string, thinking of what she was thinking. How wonderful was their connection. In that moment she forgot all about what she had said to Ink and enjoyed the simple fact that Big Mac was in her company.

They continued to peruse the items there.

They were there for a little while. The store owner came by and gave suggestions to Sugar Belle, talking about more cloches and fezes; these suggestions Sugar Belle took readily, before relaying to Mac what the owner had said, him becoming more than a little confused but never saying or implying he wanted to get out of there or otherwise leave her behind. Once or twice the store owner mentioned the Valentine’s Day sale they were having. Mac responded readily and heartily. Sugar Belle could have kissed him then, oh, she could have kissed him then!

“Uh, pardon my interrupting,” Mac intoned then. He got the store owner’s attention. “What’s this here hat?”

“That?” She came over. She let out a gasp. “Oh! That’s our prized sunhat; it’s a one of kind, believe me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Why, because Moody Marin herself made and designed it! Listen—” And she proceeded to tell him all about the schematics and exacts that he didn’t understand, but that he listened to anyway, all while Sugar Belle watched. “Let me tell you,” the woman said, “it’s super comfortable. Anyone wearing it would love it.”

“It is a very nice hat,” Mac said. He was smiling down at it. Sugar Belle decided to get closer to take a closer look.

It was a bit big, even for his massive hands, and was the color of fresh snow—snow that had been peppered with hints of light blue, she thought. A salmon-pink ribbon was wound tightly around the top, coming down to the sides like a limp arm. It was a pretty hat. Very nice, as Mac had put it. She agreed with that sentiment.

Still, though, she wasn’t sure she would ever wear it. A sunhat was, she felt, an old lady’s hat; you wore it when you were gardening, or when you couldn’t take the sun, or when you were old and frail and had short hair and couldn’t be bothered to grow it out. She did not want it, though it was very nice. She tugged on Mac’s arm. “It’s a very nice hat,” she said, “but here, look at this particular cloche, Mac—”

Mac didn’t budge, even though she was pulling quite hard. “Mac?”

“I’m thinking,” he murmured. “Don’t let me stop you, Sugar Belle, it’s fine.”

It was not fine but she had no idea how to tell him that. So she stopped tugging and looked up at him.

“With the Valentine’s Day sale, it comes to a very affordable price,” the store owner said. Oh, she could have punched her for saying that; why did she have to say that?

Mac rubbed his chin. “True. But, does that mean—and maybe this might sound a bit foolish on my part—but does that mean I have to buy it for Valentine’s Day in particular?”

“Why, of course not! You can buy this hat for whatever occasion suits your fancy!” Here the store owner smiled brilliantly. Here, Sugar Belle really wanted to punch her in the face.

“It is a very nice hat,” Mac murmured. “I bet Ink would like it.”

Sugar Belle’s heart sank. No! Not again!

The store owner turned to her. “Would you like that, Ink?”

“Oh! I-I’m not—”

Even Mac had the decency to blush. “Oh, er, no, I mean… This is Sugar Belle. Ink’s another friend.”

Oh, good… wait, what does he mean by “another friend?”

The store owner nodded understandingly. “I see. Well, whenever you make your decision, you can come up to the front.”

She placed an arm on Sugar Belle, still smiling. “Your man is a very generous person, isn’t he?”

“He sure is,” Sugar Belle said, forcing a smile that was unnaturally wide. The owner didn’t notice.

When she was gone, Belle turned to Mac. It was time to convince him of this foolishness. They had other things to do then just buy a silly hat. But before she could say anything, Mac interrupted her. “Do you think Ink would like this?” he said. “I think she’d look good in a sunhat, don’t you?”

She was, for a moment, at a loss for words. Then she forced a shaky smile. “I think… that whatever you get her, she’d love. Why? What’s the occasion?”

“I think her birthday’s coming up,” he said. “Plus… I dunno, I want to cheer her up, or at least try to. It’s silly, I know,” he added, rubbing the back of his head. “But, I gotta try, right? Otherwise I ain’t doing right by her and I’d kick my ass down the road later if I didn’t try.”

He smiled. It was so calm and so simple. It was the smile that had won her over. But he wasn’t smiling at her with it, now. He was smiling at the hat. No, she realized belatedly. At Ink.

There’s still a way, she thought. There has to be! She’s still with Braeburn, so…

“Here,” she said, taking the hat from Mac. “Let’s buy it together. It can be our gift to her, from the two of us. How does that sound?”

“Hey, that sounds great, Sugar Belle.” He gave her a quick hug. Only that? But she forced the thought aside, and kept on smiling as they made their way to the counter.

The hat came cheap and there was hardly a dent in their wallets, but now there was some emptiness in Sugar Belle’s heart that wouldn’t go away for days to come.

They finished cutting Ink’s hair—Apple Bloom did, anyway. They also finished the tragic tale, and, having finished it, found they, too were also finished.

Ink’s hair lay on the floor in a pile of purple. Apple Bloom grabbed a broom and swept it all up while Ink stared at her reflection. She would have been admiring the great job Apple Bloom had done in restoring her hair back to its normal length had she not been so caught up in what had been said.

No wonder Applejack and Apple Bloom resented Sugar Belle re-entering their lives. After what she had done, how could anyone ever think to hook up with her again? Yet Mac had. And there was obvious resentment from the Apple sisters there.

But even then… Ink could not say that the Sugar Belle from Apple Bloom’s story was the same Sugar Belle she had met. Oh, yes, there was drive, there was the same passion, and it was clear that she felt very strongly for Mac. But the idea of a vindictive, controlling, toxic girl, playing with Mac’s heart? Villainesses like that were rare, in Ink’s experience (really the only people who fulfilled that role were the Sirens, and even then, they were three out of a buttload of otherworldly phenomenon invading their world), and even with, what she had seen from Sugar Belle, counting their most recent conversation, she could not say that they were the same person. Something must have changed; or perhaps Apple Bloom was wrong in some way; or maybe it was a combination of the two; or something else entirely.

Still, she had on her mind now the same thing that had been on Bloom’s mind: how could Mac be dating Sugar Belle for a second time, now, knowing what she had done, knowing what she had put him through? How could anyone, in their right mind…

Maybe he’s in love with her, Ink thought. The thought came with a stab of pain, regret, and a sense of heavy loss. But it was a good thought. Maybe he was in love with her; and maybe that love made him do things like that. They couldn’t fault him for loving who he loved, could they? Could she? Could anyone? Who had that right?

The heart cannot help for whom it yearns… Who had said that? From where had she heard it? And, more importantly, why did it sound like she was telling herself that?

She brought a hand to her chest. Her heart was beating rapidly even though she was sitting still.

“Thanks for cutting my hair, Apple Bloom,” Ink said, getting out of the chair. Better to put those thoughts away for now, she thought.

The younger farm girl didn’t immediately answer, which Ink took as a sign that she could leave.

“He deserves better,” Apple Bloom said. She had finished sweeping. “Mac, I mean.”

Ink paused in the doorway. “I know.”

“Someone who ain’t about to throw him to the curb like he’s nothin’. Someone who loves him for who he is, not because it’s easy or convenient, but because it’s true love and the only kind of love that matters.”

Ink smiled. “Prose, right? I guess you like him.”

Apple Bloom nodded, but she wasn’t done yet. She was staring at her, at her reflection, the broom clenched tightly in her hand. “He deserves someone better,” she said again, her voice going soft. She put the broom aside. “Someone like you.”

The little girl left, leaving Ink with her mess of thoughts.