In a perfect world, Poets Corner reflected, his nice little book store would be rather quiet eternally. He would perhaps be talking with a customer, or reading a novel at the register, or scribbling on something— a poem, perhaps, a draft of a letter, a book proposal, a chapter. His wife, Star Singer, would be drinking her ever present morning coffee in the café, or using her wings to hover as she restocked a shelf quietly. She’d be whistling and humming a song to herself, at most. Quiet would reign.

Instead, his store was full of foals. Loud, noisy, enthusiastic foals, all of them being herded with only partial success by their teacher.

“Mornin’, Miss Cheerilee,” he greeted the smiling Earth Pony with his characteristic Old Ralniegh drawl, releasing his own cup of morning tea from the hold of his magic as delicately as possible, now mindful of the destructive capabilities of school age foals.

“Good morning, Mr. Corner! Thank you again for letting us use the store! I didn’t expect Twilight to be out of town for so long doing field work!”

The white unicorn smiled as the flood of children on either side of him finally abated, surging on towards the inner part of the store. “My pleasure, milady. Star and I were happy to help. You’re lucky you called when you did! I’m heading out in a day or so myself. Imagine it, Ponyville bereft of its scholarly might!” he chuckled.

“Oh, where to?” That’s what he liked about Cheerilee. She was always so inquisitive and energetic. She’d truly found her calling, teaching the foals of Ponyville.

“A book. I’m goin’ on a bit of a field trip, you might say. I’m gonna do some research, get a feel for the outdoors, live a few days in a new place, and then I’m going to come home and use that all to write more convincingly.”

In the background, he could hear the horde of children navigating his shelves. His worry was an almost physical, tangible thing, but he dismissed it. Star was wonderful with foals, always had been— and was he not a Corner? He was gentlepony after all, no need to lose his composure.

Cheerilee nodded. “Oh, good! It’s been quite a while since your last one.” She paused, and then decided to continue in a more sheepish manner. “Er… I’ll admit, I haven’t really gotten around to reading the last one. I’m a mystery and romance kind of mare, after all.”

“I totally understand,” he drawled, smiling. He really did, at that. The last book that he’d published under his own name had been fairly dark, a long and bleak psychological drama mixed with monsters and shadows of the mind. It had sold decently, but he’d definitely not penned a best seller by any means. “But I wanted to get back to my roots with this one, back to the era of the first book I ever wrote. I’m writing something more… action-packed.”

Star Singer was speaking to some foals at the café. He could hear the others spread about, and he gestured with a hoof for Cheerilee to accompany him back into the store proper.

He’d been glad, for the most part, to let Cheerilee’s class have use of the store for the morning. To be honest, he rarely got any business until after lunch, so it wasn’t quite as much of a sacrifice as the teaching mare thought. But Star and him had talked it over, and the chance to perhaps touch some filly or colt’s life was a good enough reason to host the impromptu book fair.

He’d spent the whole night before with Cheerilee and Star Singer, setting up displays and tables and foal-proofing. All of the interesting and highly breakable knickknacks had been put up for the morning, especially the bust of Books Corner and the rather unique armor from over the mountains, where the Earth Pony tribes roamed a wide and golden plain.

“So… your new book will be a lot more Daring Doo and a lot less Bag of Bones, then?” she chuckled. Poets nodded, though for once he had to force his humor slightly.

“Yeah. Darin’,” he agreed lamely.

As Cheerilee left to supervise some colts who were taking a liking to Daring Do— funny coincidence that, won’t see mine there— he heard five words that brought him up short and put the fear of Celestia in him.

“CUTIE MARK CRUSADER BARISTAS YAY!”

“Aw, Celestia,” he breathed, and hurried before the triple terrors of Ponyville could do anything irreversible or costly.

When it was all done and the store was both safer and quieter, Poets Corner and Star Singer sat at the small café bar together.

“I can’t believe that they were able to get into trouble literally after only being here for three minutes,” she muttered, sipping at her coffee. Once again, as he often did, he marveled at her caffeine habit. As long as he had known her, Star had imbibed massive amounts of the stuff all day every day and suffered surprisingly few side effects. He was simply in awe.

“Anyhow. Poets, you had those letters this morning.”

He’d almost forgotten. He turned and looked for it. Grumbling, he realized that the letters had been left behind at the counter. Reaching out with his magic, he sought for the bundle and scooped it up. His wife watched the little package fly lazily through the air. “It’s so fascinating to me, watching you levitate things,” Star remarked, her wings fidgeting without her noticing. “I mean… I don’t know. It’s so strange.”

The letters landed on the table. He’d have to go through them. Star was insistent in reminding him about those letters. She was ever watchful, knowing that he’d neglect official missives and fan mail alike out of laziness. Besides, reading fan mail and personal correspondence was something of an event for them. Nothing was funnier or more heartwarming than the letter of some excited foal who’d read one of his early adventure novels for the first time. Nothing was more fascinating than reading some of the newer works fans and their thoughts on his darker, more intellectual works. But mostly, reading letters together reminded them of being young and how Poets had just about exhausted himself producing love letters full of elegance and poetry.

“Huh. Darlin’, it’s actually pretty normal to me. It’s the first sort of magic you learn when you’re a lil colt or filly. Flyin’ is bizarre from my point of view.” His voice was light, distracted, as he sifted through envelopes magically. “Corporate… junk… junk…”

“Yes, I know, but I meant specifically flying without wings. Flying sort of equals wings to me. I mean…”

He listened of course, but still he multitasked. Every letter received a muttered comment. “Junk… junk… oh, a fan! You go in this pile…”

Star had continued on despite him. “… and magic is just so strange! I wish I could try it for just a day, just to know, you know? But not really, because I love flying too much. You’re so slow, walking around all the time! Poets, what is it?”

Her husband sputtered, unnerved. His magic faltered and the letter drifted downwards to land on the table between them. Star soon saw what the source of the writer’s astonishment was.

The envelope was practically a work of art, gilded and red with the Seal of the Reunited Sisters on it plain as day. Neither pony knew what to do with it.

“I don’t suppose you forgot your taxes, darlin’,” he managed. She chuckled, but didn’t move.

Finally, she whispered for him to open the thing. “It may just be important, Poets.” Which, he reflected, was a rather inane observation. Regardless, he magicked the wax seal on the back of the missive off and retrieved the letter inside. It, too, was inordinately fancy. A hoof tapping reminded Poets that he was not alone and he read out loud apologetically, starting from the beginning.

“To Our Subject, Poet’s Corner, greetings.

We have heard much of thou, and of the works of thine hands we have tasted and found ourselves satisfied. Your pen is gifted, gentlecolt. We have learned that you are rather closer to ourselves than once we thought and we request your presence in Canterlot tomorrow afternoon for tea and dinner with ourselves and our Sister Celestia.

Princess Luna

He looked up, wonder in his eyes. “How does she know?”

Star looked guilty.

“I… I have some explaining to do, I think. A lot, I think.”

The revelation that his wife had tea with the Princess of the Night once a week was a surreal one.

The story itself was rather heartwarming. He’d of course remembered their visit to Canterlot to see family not long after the Summer Sun Celebration, and he’d remembered as they had laid in bed her stories of the city at night and of how she had met a new friend. She’d been wandering the city while he was locked in intense discussion of W. P. Yeats with his cousin Trinity Corner, loving the night sky and singing to the stars as she often did.

She’d landed to rest for a bit and sit in a nice little plaza without even noticing the princess, alone and sighing. That Luna struggled with her return was rather public: anyone who’d seen the archaic minded Princess at social functions or ceremonies had seen her fumbling and false starts.

“… And so you simply… shared the magic of friendship. With a Goddess.” He loved Star for a reason, he reflected. This was perhaps it.

“What else was I to do? She was so sad, Poets!” The Pegasus’ wings fidgeted. “But I’ve met her once a month since for tea. She didn’t want me to tell anyone, and especially not you.”

“Especially not me? Any reason as to why that would be?” Poets Corner glanced down at the royal stationary again, fascinated by it.

“She read The Fountain when she was newly arrived from exile.”

He couldn’t believe it. He was blown away, his remaining composure gone, his jaw slack with shock. His first book, in the hooves of the princess? He was not sure how to feel about this at all.

Daring Do and The Fountain of Kyrie had not been only his work, of course. Golden Pen had written half of it, but the idea had been his. He’d gotten the opportunity to co-write with such an illustrious name as Golden Pen by sheer accident; in fact, a series of near things and accidents. His prose in the book was definitely not his best, and his style and mind had matured in many ways since then, but that book was still precious to him.

Except that it was precious in the way that one’s scribblings and artwork from the end of foaldom were precious. He loved that book, even if it had only sold decently at best, but he loved it while still being quite embarrassed of it.

“Oh, you can’t be serious.”

“Very. She loved it. Luna almost missed raising and setting the moon reading it and she told me she cried at least twice—“

“Scene with… her father?”

Star Singer nodded. Poets looked away. “I cried too, so I figured. That’s… surprising. I’m not sure how to handle it, honestly.”

“I suppose. But really, angel, it’s not all that different. Celestia and Luna are ponies just like us. They’d love to be closer to everyday ponies. Even Luna, with all her formal air, would love it. She’s just… old fashioned. Celestia’s dignity is a little casual, yes, but Luna can be just as excitable or more so. She’s read all of your books. I get… reports.”

“Oh Celestia’s burnin’ or—“ Poets’ draw became more pronounced in his distress.

“You’d do well to not say such things with her, sweet.” His wife was trying and failing not to find his mortification amusing, and couldn’t help but laugh at him again as he laid his head down on the table and murmured that she was never, ever to let him see any of these reports because the idea of the Goddess of the Night reading his work was too horrifying to even contemplate. With a mind like hers, no book he’d ever penned under his own name nor any of his pen names would ever be safe.

“Cheer up, she loves your books. She’s like a filly in a candy store every time you publish anything under any of your names. Also— remember that you don’t know that part about her liking your books, okay?” She accepted his nod and continued. “Now, tell me about the place we’re going to. You said you were changing our itinerary again.”

“No, I decided ‘gainst it. I was going to suggest a trek through the Andalus foothills, but it’s just too much. We’ll be tired. We always do too much. When you go to a new place, you should make sure you’re free to relax, lay around, enjoy the food and fruit of the land. The best part about a new and unexplored country is the land.” He smiled, not thinking of the jungles and mountains of the south at all. In his mind, he saw Thessaly, and he felt the old ache again, the one he always got when he was about to head off on a journey. “But one part of this whole thing’s still a little fishy to me. Now, I understan’ that she’d not want to meet me— meetin’ my hero, Golden Pen from who Darin’ was birthed full grown, was a little scary— but why now? Did you suggest it?”

But she was shaking her head. “No, I’m as surprised as you are. Last time we had tea, she didn’t say anything about finally wanting to meet you. The only thing I remember talking about last time was Twilight Sparkle and the Princess being happy about the purchase of new telescopes from some pony or another with a long name… Perspicacity I think.”

Poets frowned but said nothing immediately. He’d just have to wait until tomorrow to know, if there was anything to know. It was… just strange. He supposed that he could imagine a princess being shy. It sounded like something he himself might write, the lonely princess who can put on the dignified public face but who knew little or was unsure of private interaction. The more he thought of it, honestly, his initial odd feeling wore off. Perhaps it was just that.

In the end, Star went and ponied the register and counter while he sat in the café and thought for another few minutes. The idea of Princess Luna— the Princess Luna who commanded the forces of the night— liking his work was daunting, but he could deal with it. He thought so. He hoped so. The real challenge was not about what he had wrote, but what she had.

When the Lunar Sonnets had been first published, he’d picked them up solely because of their writer. The idea of a Princess of Equestria writing a small book of poems was a novel one.

He’d love them. He’d always liked free verse more, but his heart had a special soft place for well written formal poetry and hers had been stunning. He’d been blown away by their beauty. It was like resting among the stars themselves. That tiny book had had a strange sort of melancholic beauty on it, an aura of sad and fragile grace and he had been in love with those words. He’d written two reviews that had found their ways into the papers, both under different names and both praising the book highly. His readers had seen it and the sales of that little book had risen exponentially. Perhaps they’d just gotten it because he’d said it was good, but he hoped that they read it.

The prospect of meeting the poet of those words… he was conflicted. He’d felt so close to the soul of the writer when he’d been absorbed in the Sonnets, but now after penning those articles he felt awkward at the thought of meeting the target of all his eloquent and heartfelt praise. What could he say to follow that up, face to face?

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