"Soarin' High Day may not be our oldest public holiday," Mayor Mare declared, "but we're here because it's one of the most important. And," she added, grinning photogenically, "it's most certainly our cheesiest-named holiday."

Laughter, for a minute. Then the crowd quieted down, and the Mayor continued.

"Soarin's uncompromising stand against organized crime and, yes, ultimately, his sacrifice, have made Ponyville a safer place than it was at the time of his death, eight years ago." Behind her stood a large mounted photo of Soarin'.

A fashionable crowd filled the moonlit grounds of the Rainbow estate. Elegant stallions and mares, representing the cream of Ponyville society, listened politely to the Mayor's speech as they mingled and chatted amongst themselves. Bright lights dispelled the shadow of the looming manor in all of its restored Gothic splendor, revealing not a hint that the entire edifice had burned to the ground several years before.

Expensive jewelry glittered on mares i designer evening gowns who were escorted by stallions in tailored silk suits and tuxedos. Champagne glasses clinked. Waiters wove through the party, offering fresh drinks and refreshments. It was a beautiful fall night, and the weather was perfect.

"This city has seen a historic turnaround," the Mayor continued from her position at the podium. She was a lean mare whose wavy silver hair and surprisingly young looks had survived many years in office. "No city is without crime. But this city is without organized crime, because the Soarin' Act gave law enforcement teeth in its fight against the mob.

"Now ponies are talking about repealing the Soarin' Act. And to them I say...not on my watch!"

An enthusiastic round of applause greeted her words. Everypony in the crowd had benefited from the city's improved climate. One could confidently invest in Ponyville again, and expect to reap a handsome profit. Small wonder the mayor had been re-elected to another term (many ponies had lost count of how many that made).

"I want to thank the Rainbow foundation for hosting this event," she continued, accepting the applause in stride. "I'm told Ms. Dash couldn't be with us tonight, but I'm sure she's with us in spirit."

Or maybe she's closer than we think, Twilight Sparkle thought. The commissioner sat alone at an open bar not far from the dais where the Mayor was speaking. She was an ex-Canterlot student of magic, and she'd begun to feel the effects of middle age hitting her. Hard. Gray streaks appeared in her lengthy purple mane (streaks which she quickly dyed again), and her time as the police commissioner had taken a large toll on the social skills she'd come to Ponyville to perfect. Her bright violet eyes scanned the roof of the manor, and came to rest on a lonely figure gazing down at the festivities from one of the upper balconies. The figure was still enough to be mistaken or a gargoyle, but Twilight Sparkle knew better. She knew a lurker when she saw one, and she suspected that the one she was looking at now was the owner of the very manor she stood in front of now.

"Now I'm going to give way to an important voice," the Mayor sang, snagging Twilight's attention away from the shadow atop the manor. Her heart sank, and she wished she had time to fortify herself with another one of Applejack's famous Appletini's. Her hoof rested on the speech she'd prepared the night before, and she unfolded them to review her handiwork one last time. She'd sweated blood into her work, every word from her heart, but she didn't know if she had the heart to read these words out loud.

Then, taking a deep breath, she braced herself for what was to come.

Oh Celestia, she thought, I wish you could help guide me again. But even you, I can't tell. Am I really going to do this? Am I going to go up there and say it, finally, after all these years?

"Commissioner."

A hearty voice startled her out of her inner monologue, and Twilight's head snapped around to gaze at the form of Fancypants moving towards her. Judging by his unusually ruddy complexion, Twilight guessed that Fancy had already had a drink or two...or perhaps three. It was unlike the stallion, but, then, so was the event of Soarin' High Day. The only part of him that still looked remarkably uptight was his hair. It looked like it cost more than a beat cop's weekly salary.

"Fancypants."

The stallion glanced around the sprawling grounds, studying the gardens and statuary that adorned them.

"Ever lay eyes on Dash at one of these things?"

Yep, he's definitely drunk, she thought, and decided against mentioning the shadowy figure on the balcony. She shook her head.

"No one has," another voice said. "Not fer years."

Big Macintosh, Twilight's deputy commissioner, joined them at the bar. A large, burly figure, he was half a decade older than Twilight, though he looked remarkably younger. He'd made a name for himself as Twilight Sparkle's Number One Assistant, a name that made her cringe each time she heard it. He himself didn't care. Brother of Applejack and a farmer himself, he had surprised many ponies by joining the police force when it was instigated in Ponyville back when it was just, well, a village. Now, it seemed, he'd surprised even more ponies by showing up to Soarin' High Day in a tailored suit that fit his unusually large frame more comfortably than Twilight's dress fit her. He looked extremely dapper for a colt who spent his mornings and afternoons plowing in an apple orchard and his evenings stopping ponies from robbing the Sugarcube Corner.

Twilight looked down at her own dress and sighed. There had been a time when her love had helped her make sure she was presentable at these occasions. But, as she'd said many times in the past eight years, times had changed.

She listened again to the Mayor's voice as it drifted down from the podium.

"She can tell you about the bad old days," she continued, apparently in no hurry to leave the spotlight. "When the criminals and the corrupt ran this town with such a tight grip that ponies put their faith in a murderous thug in a mask and cape. A thug who showed her true nature when she betrayed the trust of this great stallion." She turned to the portrait of Soarin'. "And murdered him in cold blood."

Ignoring the Mayor's speech, Fancypants grinned as he spotted an attractive young server who breezed by bearing a tray of daisy canapés. A black maid's uniform, complete with a pressed white apron, cuffs, and collars, flattered the pink mare's slender figure. She froze as the celebrity rudely grabbed her derrière.

"Sweetheart," he scolded her. "Not so fast with the chow."

Veeeery drunk, Twilight noted.

The server turned to face him, pulling herself deftly out of his grasp. A tight smile graced her face and hid the immense displeasure lurking in her large pale blue eyes. She held out a tray.

"Flower balls?"

Twilight repressed a snicker.

The remark flew over Fancypants' well-styled head as he snatched a pair of the snacks from the tray and stuffed them into his mouth. The maid swiftly exited the scene, not that Twilight couldn't blame her. Celebrity or not, Fancypants needed to keep his hands to himself.

"Twilight Sparkle," Mayor Mare was saying, "can tell you the truth about Soarin'-"

Fancypants noticed the papers that made up Twilight's speech floating next to her.

"Celestia, Sparkles, is that your speech?" he said, spewing crumbs at her. "We're gonna be here all night." Twilight resisted the urge the smack him upside the head, and instead put the papers away in her saddlebag.

"Perhaps the truth about Soarin' isn't so simple, Fancy."

"-so I'll let her tell you herself," the Mayor concluded. She stepped away from the podium. "Commissioner Sparkle?"

Another round of applause rose from the crowd.

Well, here goes everything, Twilight thought glumly, and headed towards the stage, gulping down her drink as she went. She found it ironic that she felt like a convicted felon approaching the gallows as she made her way to the dais. She stepped up to the mike and took out the papers that contained exactly what the Mayor had said she had. The truth.

"The truth?" Twilight repeated out loud, speaking to the crowd.

Without warning, an unwanted memory surfaced. She saw Soarin' as she truly remembered him, as she would always remember him. The left half of his face was a burnt mass of scarred tissue and blood red muscle, creating an opposite color scheme to the bright blur right half of his once handsome face. His left eye, burning with madness, gazed out at him from a naked socket. She could see his exposed jawbone, revealed through a ragged gap in his cheek, and half of his smile permanently shone out at her through that gap, pearly whites glowing in the moonlight.

The right side of his face was just as handsome as the photo she could now see out of the corner of her eye.

He was no longer the stunt-colt-turned-district-attorney that amazed and inspired ponies everywhere. Now he was mad, and he had a gun pointed at Trixie, the one mare she loved more than anypony else. The blue unicorn stared into Twilight's eyes, trembling and holding back panicked tears, even as Twilight herself was pleading for him not to kill her.

Unmoved, Soarin' flipped a coin...

The memory was forced back down as Twilight found herself back on the dais at the celebration for her wife's attempted murderer.

She wondered what would happen if she told them the truth. How would they react, if they learned that, for eight years now, they had been celebrating a colt that had murdered pony after pony to try and get revenge for a death that nopony he'd hurt was responsible for. Was it worth it, to clear her own conscience and weigh down theirs?

"I have written a speech telling the truth about Soarin'," Twilight admitted, making up her mind in that moment. She folded the papers and stuffed them away, this time in a secret pocket she'd magicked into her own coat. "But maybe the time isn't right."

"Thank Luna for that," Fancypants muttered, loud enough for her to hear from the bar.

"Maybe all you need to know," Twilight said, "is that there are a thousand inmates in Hayseed Prison as a direct result of the Soarin' Act. These are violet criminals, essential cogs in the organized crime machine that terrorized Ponyville for so long. Maybe all I should say right now about Soarin's death is this--it has not been for nothing."

The crowd applauded--all except the figure on the balcony, who silently turned and disappeared into the shadows of the manor. Twilight watched her go, and sighed.

Can't blame her, Twilight thought. I didn't say anything worth listening to.

She felt like a coward, and retreated from the dais without another word. Doubts tagged along with her, as they had every day for the past eight years. Had she done the right thing? Or had she simply not had the nerve to do anything?

She found Big Mac at the bar.

"Are the second shift reports in?" Twilight asked.

"On yer desk," Macintosh assured her. "But ah think you should put in more time with the Mayer."

Twilight snorted.

"Sorry, that's your department." Big Mac was better at working City Hall (surprisingly enough), and stroking the egos of politicians. Twilight preferred the nuts-and-bolts of old-fashioned police work.

With one last glance at the portrait on the dais, she decided she'd done her part of Soarin' High Day this year (how she despised that name). So, with a goodbye kiss from Big Mac, she headed for the gravel driveway, where a long row of spotless town cars (so advanced they'd gotten, all because of good ol' Soarin'!) waited for their passengers. She couldn't wait to get of here.

Every year, it just got harder and harder to handle.

Fancypants watched Twilight go, and shook his head. She wants to leave this spread for work? He turned to Big Macintosh.

"Has she even seen the crime statistics?" he asked.

Bic Mac shrugged.

"She goes by her gut, and it's been givin' her nothin' but trouble these last few years."

"She must have one hell of an understanding with her wife," Fancy said. He thought of his own, dear Fleur, and how convenient it had been that her modeling trip had been at the smae time as the ever-important Soarin' High Day celebration.

"Nnnope," Macintosh drawled. "She left years ago. Just like when they first met." He did not mention his own relaionship with her.

"Hmmph. Well, she'll have plenty of time to visit." He leaned in toward Big Mac and whispered, "She's gatting dumped in the spring."

"What?" Big Mac looked astonished. "But, she's a hero!"

"She's a war hero," Fancypants corrected. "Look around, Mac. This is peacetime. And besides, when she's gone, you get the job." He grinned at Big Mac, a gesture that Big Mac did not return.

Drawing his attention away from the maroon stallion, Fancypants looked out at the party, now in full swing, and smiled. He wondered again why Twilight had decided to leave so soon before realizing something important.

Now, where did that ravishing little maid go?

She still felt his hooves on her flank. Each visit back to the memory drew up several pangs of unsettled anger. I'll deal with him later, she thought. Now, I have to focus.

She made her way back to the kitchen of the manor, where a small army of maids, cooks, and waiters were stomping around working as hard as they could to keep the guests well-fed and happily watered. She discarded the tray and entered the fray, blending in almost instantly with the rest of the staff. She overheard a small cluster of maids gossiping in the corner.

"They say she never leaves the east wing."

"I've heard she's had an accident, that she's disfigured."

The room abruptly fell silent when an older looking mare stepped into the room, wearing a butler's uniform that appeared to have been specialized to match her. Her light pink hair (complemented, surprisingly enough, by several streaks of gray) fell lightly across her face, and she brushed it away before turning to the head chef.

"Mr. Le Grand," She said, addressing the griffon under the chef's hat softly. Her voice seemed like that of a mother caring for her young child, though the maid was sure that Fluttershy herself had never had the time to have children. "Why are your people using the stairs, if you don't mind me asking?"

Despite the gentle tone of her voice, Mr. Le Grand muttered something incoherent in watch sounded like Prench. She didn't bother to listen, instead watching intently as the yellow pegasus set a glass of water on a large silver tray that had several large covered dishes on it. She glanced around the kitchen briefly.

"Um, where's Ms. Mild?"

The maid stepped forward.

"She's at the bar, ma'am," she said. "Can I help?"

The pegasus sighed, and gestured to the tray. She pulled a brass key out of her uniform (it looked ancient) and set it on the tray.

"The east drawing room," she instructed, ignoring the lock of mane that fell in front of her face again. "Unlock the door, place the tray on the table, lock the door again, if it's not too much trouble." She paused, then added, "Nothing more."

The maid nodded, took the tray upon her back, and swiftly exited the room. She trotted along the dark corridors of the manor, gazing at the antique-like items set along the walls of the house. It seemed less like someplace that somepony would live, and more like a museum.

She eventually found herself in front of a large wooden door, and slid the key off the tray expertly. She tried it, and the door swung open slowly, revealing what was obviously supposed to be a living area in the mansion. As a matter of fact, it looked more like somepony lived here than in any other part of the mansion.

She set the tray down and gazed around the expensive-looking room. She saw no sign of anything alive nearby, including the house's mysterious and reclusive owner. She twirled the key in her hoof, deciding not to leave just yet.

Her eyes locked on a door that had been left ajar on the other side of the room.

Well, what do ya know?, she thought, and grinned mischievously.