Rosemary peered down at the dimly lit notebook floating in front of her, the charcoal stick she was using to make her own notes floating slowly in front of her. She was well hidden in a bush that was starting to lose its foliage while she watched the house down the way with a spyglass floating against her eye.

It was the address Roseate had given her, and she’d taken notes on the elder pony’s habits from this safe distance several blocks away in the decorative median running down the middle of the street.

She’d made sure to check above her this time before settling in, and knew that the broad leaves of the magnolia were still giving her enough protection from the overhead that as long as she hadn’t been seen slipping into place, nopony could see her from above.

He was a majordomo, that much she’d been able to gather from little tidbits of conversation she’d managed to pick up with her weak ability at aural magic. He had been. Friends had come by last night and they’d shared tales about what they’d done in their youths.

Along with the tidbits of life, Rosemary had gotten the reason Roseate wanted this one. He’d been an early noble supporter of the Lace Reformation, and had served as a nanny for Collar himself. Such a pony could give away a lot of secrets, and he was also the heart of an elder social circle that supported the changes.

They were shopkeepers, a librarian, and a retired trader, a core part of the spread of acceptance of the Reformation in Damme in the earlier days, ponies willing to trade and deal with Merriers.

Taking one of them out, the heart of their group, would be a heavy blow to the support the Reformations had in Damme.

She glanced at the notes she’d made again, the dark marks on the light paper visible even in the moonlight with one of her tinctures stinging her eyes and enhancing her night vision. It wasn’t a pleasant tincture, but it briefly improved the ability of her eyes to take in light.

But it left her vulnerable to bright lights, too.

This is the price for my citizenship. Rosemary shivered as she collapsed her spyglass and tucked away her notebook. It was the price for staying close to Rosewater and making sure the mare didn’t hurt herself more.

She was still recovering from her duel with Roseate. Rosewater hadn’t been able to hide the symptoms of using fear magic from her, and Rosemary had had to cancel a couple evenings to take care of the idiot.

That’s not fair to her. You were off doing your own stupid thing. The fight explained why it’d been so easy for her to slip across the bridges, the whistles in the background couldn’t be Rosewater, after all. Rosewater wouldn’t intervene in her task, even if it meant her capture.

Capture was better than exile, after all. It meant she could only be held accountable for what she’d done in Damme.

And if word came back that Roseate tried to exile her, she could defect.

Rosewater might even follow her.

She could hope, at least.

Tugging her cloak over her, Rosemary looked about, searching for and listening for the nearest patrol and, seeing none, she slipped into a veil and off towards the west.

Several times, she had to duck into deeper shadows to avoid a whisper of wind from above, but she made her way back to Bridge Row without issue, but the first alleyway she peered out of had a full complement of alert guards, half with scent-masks on, the other half with theirs close to hoof.

It couldn’t be easy to breathe in them, but it was a sensible precaution for anti-ambush tactics.

The next alleyway she peeked out at gave no better news. This group was keeping an active watch, even, and she was certain they’d almost spotted her. They could catch her before she got halfway to the safe point.

She couldn’t resist, or that would break the promise she’d made in her heart to Captain Pink. She couldn’t hurt the guards.

She couldn’t even hurt the old stallion. There would be a way she could follow Roseate’s orders to the letter and let him be. It might be hard to find, but she wouldn’t break that promise.

The next bridge, the Primrose, with both Royal Guard and Dammeguard on watch, the former only keeping a perfunctory watch on the door to their offices. Still, the Dammeguard presence was lighter because of it. Nopony in Merrie wanted to accidentally catch one of Celestia’s own guards in a spell.

There was also… Rosemary’s eyes widened as she recognized one of the ponies standing guard, her platinum mane distinguished in the moonlight as she wandered away from the torchlight on a short patrol.

An idea began to form. It was insane. Stupid. And it might… well…

Rosemary considered the cloak she was wearing. She hadn’t brought any scents along, nor anything but candies. The cloak itself, she had no special emotional attachment to. It was drab, mottled, and she’d bought it herself. It was something Rosewater either hadn’t thought to do, or couldn’t do.

But it was still the cloak Rosewater had trained her in. That training…

Stars damnit, mare. It was also a piece of clothing that would mark her as having been on a mission of less than above-board task. That would at least invite suspicion. More suspicion, anyway.

Taking a compromise, and hoping they didn’t frisk her, Rosemary doffed the cloak and bound it into as small a package as she could. It was something she could tuck between her hind legs. It would be barely visible, and veiling it made it even harder to notice.

Still, she’d be counting on Dammers not wanting to feel her up or get anywhere close to sensual to not find it.

She squinted at the guard on the right, cocked her head, cast a whispering voices spell, and giggled into the guard’s ear.

The guard snapped to her right, “Who goes there?”

“Stars, Platinum, you’re jumpy.”

“No I’m not. Somepony just giggled in my ear.” Prim Platinum waved her cudgel through the air slowly, as if Rosemary could turn anywhere close to invisible. “Come out!”

“Prim Platinum?” Rosemary asked as she strode around the corner, unveiled and grinning. “Hi!”

Platinum groaned. “It’s you.”

“It’s me!” Rosemary stopped a respectful distance away and brought a hoof to the heart mark on her chest, bowing to the other guard. “And I don’t believe we’ve met, good stallion.”

“Is, uh… This the pony Captain Pink chewed you out about?” he asked, not looking at Rosemary, but jabbing his cudgel at her.

“Yeah.” Platinum took a deep breath, let it out. “Hokay. This is a new one on me. Why are you in Damme, at night?”

“Well, I’ve already seen everything Merrie has to offer at night, hundreds of times over, so I thought it might be nice if…” Rosemary shrugged one shoulder, still looking at the stallion. “You know, I got to see what the night side looks like from here.”

To her surprise, Platinum smiled and relaxed and tapped the tip of her cudgel against the other guard. “It’s fine. She’s harmless. This is Rosemary and, if you hadn’t heard, Captain Pink took her out to lunch.”

“I’d heard. I’m Prim Glider, commander of the watch tonight. Explain yourself and your reasoning.”

“Well… I’m not exactly welcome here during the day, so I have to sneak over to see what it’s like.” Rosemary didn’t try to hide the shame at her actions, her ears flattening into her mane. “And it’s beautiful at night. Here.” She advanced a few steps closer, keeping her eyes turned away from the too-bright torches.

Platinum sucked a breath in through her teeth. “Stars, your eyes.”

“Yeah. Nightsight tincture,” Rosemary said. “It’s one of my own blends. It lets me see better at night. Almost like it’s daytime, actually. The downside is that everything is brighter.”

“This is all well and good,” Prim Glider said with a glower and roll of his eyes, “but what are you doing here tonight?”

“Oh, relax, Glide,” Platinum groaned, tapping him again with her cudgel. “She’s harmless. I mean, she walked right up to the bridge, completely guileless, and just sat there talking to me while Streak went to get the captain.”

“Plat, protocol needs to be followed.” He pulled out a gemstone set in an intricate golden brooch, shifted his focus, and poured magic into the clear diamond. “Stand still, Rosemary. This detects magic.”

Hesitating, Rosemary stood still, pondering the notebook wrapped up in the cloak between her hind legs. It was definitely full of incriminating evidence. But she could bluff through it. Maybe. She let it unveil and clenched her thighs together, catching the cloak and desperately hoping none of it came loose, then let go of all of her magic.

He held the brooch out, passing it over her. It flashed pink briefly near her horn, and again near her cutie mark. “No active enchantments.” Glider relaxed minutely. “Have you broken any of our laws?”

“No.” Rosemary bowed her head once. “I’ve used no scent magic. Only a veil, because I know it makes you all jumpy if I’m in town. I just wanted to see the night sky through the magnolias, to smell the night sea air rolling in from the bay without it going over the hills first. And to watch the moon’s light reflecting off the wavetops from atop Prim Rock.”

“Tourist, then?” Glider chuckled. “Alright. How was it?”

“Beautiful! Absolutely gorgeous.” She pranced in place and crouched, letting her own excitement overcome the nerves she felt. It looked like she was going to get away with it. “I never thought the gray stone would be so pretty, but it is. In the moonlight, everything is pewter and tin. Even the grass is beautiful. And who thinks that about grass?”

Even Glider smiled at that.

Platinum chuckled. “Not me. Fine, fine. Maybe I’ll stop and admire the grass someday. Lieutenant, thoughts?”

“Eh. It’s easy to see why the captain took a shine to her. Fine, let her go.” He stepped aside and lifted his eyes briefly. “Just be careful, miss. We’re watching you. Don’t break any laws, and I won’t have to see that smile go away, okay?”

“I promise!” She danced forward and offered a hug to him, which he declined, and a glance at Platinum brought her to a stop between them.

“Sorry, not tonight, Rosemary.” Platinum’s ears ticked back, and she glanced at Glider.

“Shoot. Well, thank you.” Rosemary settled for patting her on the peytral. “Have a nice night.”

Cloudy Rose stared at the stack of tomes and the spray of folders laid out before her. Reading had never been easy for her, the least of the reasons for that being a pegasus. The days of unicorns hoarding learning to themselves was long gone. It was the fact that she had to stand or sit still to read that bothered her the most.

But running and flying all over the city for the past two days hadn’t brought her the peace she needed to think about the Rose Terror. Collar wouldn’t tell her what had passed between them on the Primrose bridge, and she couldn’t very well ask the other source, but he’d come back more contemplative than when he’d gone off with her.

The only thing he’d told her was, “She hurt herself deeply to help us. I think she does not realize how deeply.”

Other than that, he would only tell her what she had already guessed herself from the brief unguarded moment when she’d cried over her reputation. A reputation that she herself had fostered. All for the sake of Rosemary.

Natural looking tears were hard to fake. They required the actor to pause to embrace something sad, or for somepony to tweak their ears until they cried. Fake tears didn’t fall out in the middle of talking. They didn’t rivulet, but dripped.

Rosewater’s tears had run in a brief stream down her cheeks, following the partial path of the Rosethorn marks. In part, it was what Collar had said. Her duel with her mother had injured her in some way. In another way, perhaps she was tired of being the monster on both sides. Especially when there was an actual monster to worry about.

She sighed and pulled down the top tome, a discussion by multiple authors about the nature of the Rosethorn magics, and settled in to read.

And closed it half an hour later, rubbing at her temple with one hoof and pushing the tome away with the other. They did like to pontificate at length in essays and musings about the oddest things tangentially related to Rosethorn magic. The chaos of spellworks here and there hadn’t helped the growing headache. By comparison, Collar’s notations had been easy to read, and she still knew nothing about what he’d shown her.

She might as well try to explain how she walked on clouds to him, or why a pegasus needed magic to fly at all reliably without sort of gliding.

The next tome, a collection of essays on the war’s history, proved no more useful. Pontifications and pride, lauding the Dammeguard for successfully raiding Merrie and bringing back prisoners to trade for concessions at the same time they reviled the Merrieguard and the Rosethorns for doing the same thing.

She pulled down the third, stared at the cover, Treatises on the Nature and Balance of Power Between Merrie and Damme, an Exercise in Political Games and Theory, and promptly set it aside. There would be nothing useful inside, despite the archivist’s boastful admission that he’d written three of the pages inside. Likely the index.

The fourth was newer, the pages still creamy wheat in color, the edges neat and orderly, the wooden cover still showing the carver’s mark where age had not softened them. Carnations and Crimsons, a Split Between Sisters.

The title promised mystery. She pursed her lips and almost shoved it aside. At least the last book had boldly stated that it would be useless. She did not like the new trend of catchy titles to draw the reader in.

She opened the book and began to read the angular block-script.

Carnation Rose, second daughter of Roseline, split from her elder sibling in personality early on. Sources in the Rose palace provide multiple accounts of Carnation being far kinder, taking more after her mother than Roseate did. The two disliked each other as sisters are sometimes wont to do. The typical sibling rivalries were magnified between heiress and younger sister.

Cloudy settled in to read, going over the early disputes that were rumored to have happened, and those that had corroborating evidence outside of Rose Palace rumor. Witnesses in the street to see Roseate taking an iced cone from her sister, to Roseline’s displeasure, of Roseate secretly belittling her sister to the few friends she was able to cultivate despite her caustic attitude. Numerous incidents involved Roseate tripping her sister, then pretending to help her up as if she hadn’t been the one to do it.

The cruelties got more subtle as they grew older and Carnation moved from the Palace to an estate owned by one of Roseline’s aunts as a ten year old filly. There, she had matured at a rapid pace, settling into her personality as a kind pony whom the commoners loved and the nobles looked down on, save the aunt, Rosefire, a rare pegasus in the line of unicorns.

Five years passed before Roseate, then eighteen and throwing the cultural underpinnings of Merrie to the wind, had her first foal, Rosewater. And then another, and another, and another. Carnation Rose had had strings of lovers, as was the Rose way, but none that she had settled in enough with to allow herself becoming pregnant. But by the time the fourth foal of Roseate’s had come, and Carnation had passed the age of twenty one, Rosefire had deeded the estate to her and returned to live and care for her mother, then entering into her dotage.

The young Rosewater, suffering from some dispute with her mother after earning her cutie mark at the tender age of six, had quit the palace of her own will and been taken in by Carnation.

Of her own will? Cloudy stared at the passage again, reading it carefully.

Invoking a little used law of parental right, and navigating the legal pathways of the treaty with the help of Carnation Rose to retain her status as the heir presumptive, Rosewater separated herself from her mother with the help of Carnation Rose and placed herself squarely into the guardianship of her aunt until her final majority at the age of twenty one.

Not exactly. But it still was interesting that even at the age of six, Rosewater was willing to defy her mother. And her talent at that age. Perhaps that was the reason why, especially if Roseate treated her own daughters the way she treated Carnation at that age. Or, she’d gotten a dose of whatever had attracted Roseate to the father in the first place. Strength, surely, and her pleasure to dominate it and subvert it. Fitting that the father’s act of revenge had been the offspring he’d sired if so.

She shook her head and read on, following the text into the beginning of Rosemary’s life, twenty years ago. Then ten, Rosewater had applied herself brusquely to the task of helping Carnation raise Rosemary and kept up with her own schooling, showing her dedication to the tasks in the businesslike manner in which she comported herself, neither showing more or less affection for Rosemary in the early years than was expected of a cousin.

In later years, as Rosemary grew into her own, little signs of affection began to creep into their outside interactions, signs of a sisterly love, or that of an aunt doting on a favorite niece. That much, she knew, and skimmed the sections for mentions of Rosemary’s name. There were few, save where their interactions seemed to place stress on the relationship between Roseate, and her daughter and sister.

Exile.

The chapter title, a single, bold word urged her on.

Not much is known about the reasons for the exile of Carnation Rose. Speculation…

She skimmed over the next few paragraphs covering speculation she’d already read elsewhere, ticking her ears in annoyance.

One immediate effect of the exile was Rosewater declaring a public duel against her mother. Roseate, as the challenged, had chosen the weapon to be scent magic, and Rosewater had agreed with a fervor that began the whisperings of the name The Rose Terror. She would cement that title during the duel.

The terms of the duel were to be kept secret, but a careful observation of the lifestyle of Rosewater and Rosemary indicated that they had not changed their disposition afterwards. If anything, their relationship in public grew cooler and more distant.

She’d seen it on her own, felt it on her own. Rosewater was a mare who could inspire terror. Even thinking back, however, she could see a few faces in the crowd that looked sympathetic, faces she’d thought had stood out among the other spectators and witnesses as unusual.

Rosy Glass had been one of them, the tavern-owner holding her hooves to her mouth as her eyes tracked Rosewater on her way out.

Collar’s familiar cadence came down the stairs several minutes later as she contemplated the last few chapters, mostly filled with speculations and a few disjointed treatises on the early lives and manners of Carnation and Roseate.

“Is a monster still a monster if the things they do are in a good cause?” Cloudy asked as he walked within earshot, paging through the index for interesting keywords.

“Ah. That book,” he said by way of reply. “Yes, but monstrous actions must also have context. And truth. How much of what she’s supposed to have done is truth, and how much has been rumor she’s cultivated or at least not bothered to stamp out?” He sat beside her and flipped to a page she’d already read. “How much of it is rumor that Roseate’s cultivated and she’s accepted as her mother giving her yet more armor?”

“And how much would she do to further her own goals?” Cloudy shook her head slowly. “I don’t trust her to not do monstrous things.”

“I trust her to act against Roseate,” he said. “I trust her little farther than that.”

“Good.” Cloudy tensed, he had that look about him that said he was going to say something to upset her. “But…”

“But I think she can be brought to see reason.” He held up a hoof, waving her down. “She’s the heir, legally by the terms of the charter forming House Rose. Until she steps down or is cast out of the family, she is the heir.”

“You’re not thinking of accepting her proposal? You know what that means.” Cloudy had to struggle to keep her tone even, and she still spat out the question.

“I do. But I don’t have to be her mate to bring the cities into accord. I only need her to agree to a partnership of cities.”

“And if Roseate passes on without Rosewater having children, it will pass to Rosary, who already has one filly and a colt.” Cloudy shook her head. “The war would go on for at least another generation.”

“Well, then. Let’s wish Roseate a long and miserable life,” Collar said with a snort.

“Toast to that later?”

It ended up being a nightly toast for two nights running, a joke shared between them over dinner with Prim Lace and the other important functionaries of Prim Palace, until the idea of Roseate living long enough for Rosewater’s apparent celibacy to become a problem soured the mood.

That question had nagged at Collar for some time after she’d admitted to being celibate aside from masturbation, and he’d set Cloudy and Stride to combing the archives for a chronology of Rosewater’s lovers. Those they knew about, at least.

The result of that report sat on his desk. It was… extensive. From her first sexual awakening at fourteen, she’d had more than a dozen lovers, the numbers petering out into her adulthood as they usually did even for the famously promiscuous Merriers. And then several stretches of months with no romantic encounters following the duel, marked only by a name or two. And then the last, Roseling, an earth pony she’d met at the Gala in Merrie last year.

He tried to recall her, but could not. He barely recalled Rosewater, and that mostly had been because she had been caught up chasing one of Merrie’s once most prominent soap makers.

Roseate probably had much to do with the reason Rosewater didn’t have lovers anymore. Roseate took them away from her by one means or another.

Collar rubbed a hoof against his muzzle and groaned. He was probably the only one safe from her predation. Something that apparently also was not true.

He pushed the report aside and pulled up the next one, the nightly report on Rosemary’s activities in the city. She continued to do everything she’d told the bridge guard she did, wandering the city to admire the sights in moonlight, but she also did so after doffing her cloak and going about only veiled—or half-veiled when she pulled in the mists and danced in moonlight and darkness.

That was already causing rumors to spread about a ghost in Primline Park, a rumor that he was reluctant to quash or address. It gave her a cover, of sorts, and made her activities at least slightly understandable.

She was getting better at hiding, too. Prim Stride was starting to have difficulty finding her in the dark, but not when she settled in for the first activity she partook in, observing the retired majordomo Prim Cottage. Last night, he’d heard her humming along with the song the old stallion sang with his friends, low enough that he’d thought at first it came from Cottage’s home. At least until he could make out her head bobbing in time with it.

Out of tune.

He chuckled and shook his head. She was too inexperienced to do what she was doing, but he would rather not push more of Rosewater’s buttons than he had to. And what she was doing thus far was harmless. Annoyingly wasting his guard’s time, and pestering the bridge guard when she returned, more brazen than the last time, but he also noted that there was a sort of quiet respect in the guard for her.

Spread in part by Prim Platinum.

Rosemary was making a habit of finding the bridge she was stationed at when she was stationed at one of the bridges and flirting with the mare. True, she’d only done it for the past week, but it was a pattern that was hard to ignore, and Platinum’s reports of her activities were growing increasingly wistful.

“Will I even be able to get them to arrest you?” he asked as he finished reading Stride’s musings on the odd mare.

Stride couldn’t quite understand why Platinum, another daughter of a hardline anti-Rose house, would admire and respect a Rose, or a Rosethorn especially. But he’d also never actually talked to her.

Rumor and watching a pony quietly couldn’t convey personality and charm the way talking to them and meeting them eye to eye could.

He glanced up at the clock and shook his head slowly. The door to his office banged open as his next appointment came in. Prim Stride. He set aside the stallion’s report, prominently placing it where he could see it when he sat.

“Sir? You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, Stride. At ease, this isn’t a guard request.” He pulled over a cushion from one of the benches and set it in front of the desk. “I wanted to talk to you and get your thoughts on Rosemary.”

“Sir.” He sat, his eyes flicking to the report. “Everything is there, sir.”

“Is it?” He picked up the report again, flipping through the two pages, front and back, of it. “There isn’t anything about how you feel about her in here.”

“It’s an action report, sir. It’s not…” He gulped. “Sorry, sir. It’s not a diary.”

“No, it’s not. And I’m not upset at you for that. But I wanted to get how you felt about the mare.” He waved the report in the air, making it crinkle and crack. “You almost waver into it, but you keep away from personal feelings. I would like to hear those.”

“Sir—”

“Please drop the sir. This isn’t a guard event. I want you off your hooves, Stride. I want your raw feeling.” He sighed and rubbed at his muzzle. “Just tell me what your gut feeling is.”

“Y-yes—” He swallowed again. “She’s a Rosethorn and a scent mage. I don’t know why she hasn’t been locked up yet.”

“Has she done scent magic?”

“Not in Damme, but she’s used it. I’ve heard stories about her cousin—”

“She is not her cousin,” Collar said firmly. “Please remember that. My lover is in love with her still. And you know Cloudy Rose. Do you dislike her because she’s in love with a Rosethorn?”

“N-no, sir. It’s just that… Rosemary is…” He swallowed again. “She’s a free spirit. She unveils herself in the parks and prances in the grass and rolls around in it, laughing. She’s like a filly. But she’s a Rosethorn.”

“Let’s reverse the situation, Stride. Say you did the same thing she’s doing. Enjoying herself in her city the same way she’s enjoying herself in ours.” Collar raised a hoof to halt his exhortation. He was far too much under his parents’ influence still. “A thought experiment. I trust you’ve been reading and studying the philosophy I’ve been assigning you for off-duty hours?”

“Y-yes sir. My parents don’t like it.” Stride shook his head. “But I’ve been learning. And I’ve been talking with Cloudy and Coat about the philosophy books.”

“This is a thought experiment. Say you heard that Merrie’s night life was a wonder to behold and you had to witness it first hoof to understand its joys.” He waited, but Stride only sat, quiet, waiting for the rest. “Say you went, and it was as wondrous as you’d imagined, and you want to keep going back, but every time you do, there’s a danger that you might be caught and detained, and kept from your family? What would you do? That is the situation that Rosemary is putting herself into every night she comes over.”

To his credit, Stride didn’t immediately say anything, but stared at his hooves, his ears ticking back and forth as he worked through the ideas. He wouldn’t tell him that the night life of Merrie was a wonder to behold, or that he’d witnessed it twice in his life at the side of a Rose who took him to the tasting booths to sample the wares of the common pony.

He’d forgotten the stallion’s name already, if he’d ever been told, but it had been a moment of brotherhood, of sharing delightful tastes of wine and food that he’d never had an inclination to before.

He looked forward to the next time it was held in Merrie, this time to go with Cloudy.

When Stride looked up, his ears flat, Collar saw the answer he’d wanted to see in his eyes.

“I’d want to go back, sir. Watching her cavort, it’s… I see what you mean. Seen from that perspective, she’s… beautiful. Isn’t she?” Stride blinked his eyes rapidly. “Why doesn’t she just come over and leave the Rose Terror—”

“Please don’t call her that,” Collar said stiffly. He could still see the flicker of Rosewater’s eye as the guard called her that, the deep pain that she hid so well it might even have been his imagination. The tears hadn’t been, or the pain he’d heard in her voice as she spoke of her sanctum. “Not ever. She is a pony, Stride. Don’t let yourself forget that by making a monster out of her by naming her something else.”

“S-sir, aye, sir.” Stride raised his hoof in a salute. Collar caught it before he could complete the gesture and guided the hoof back down to the floor.

“As a pony, not as a guard. Can I ask you to consider that she does what she does for reasons as unfathomable to us as the reasons we do many of the things we do?” He shook his head. “Think about it. And remember that whatever else we are, all of us bleed the same blood and cry the same tears.”

Rosewater hesitated at the entrance to her own workshop, aware of what she was about to do might be considered ‘interference,’ but fighting with herself over the need to know Rosemary wasn’t going down the same path she had.

Appeasement after appeasement that ultimately led her to become the second most hated mare in Damme, below Roseate herself.

It’s done. You have to deal with the results.

If Rosemary was going to go down the same road, she needed to know. To prepare herself, if nothing else.

She opened the door with a purpose, pretending like her hesitation hadn’t even occurred as she came into the workshop and stopped, glancing at Rosemary working at the main bench, the entrance not even twitching her ears as she stared at the solution swirling about in a small beaker.

Rosewater settled in a little farther down and made a show of preparing her own work for the day, even though she wouldn’t start working with the aromatics. That would ruin Rosemary’s work.

Instead, she started making a shopping list and checking her stocks of certain herbs and oils, and making notes on what she’d have to ask Rosemary for help with for a precise infusion.

Minutes passed while she kept half her attention on Rosemary as she finished her work and poured the white, shimmery liquid into a perfume vial, the measure of what she’d made almost precise, and a waft of it bringing thoughts of sleep to her mind.

Gentle sleep, filled with dreams of more pleasant times.

Not the forced sleep of a capture.

But she couldn’t offer comment. This would fail, and Rosemary would be captured if she tried to pull her target across the bridge like that.

She still has a week. It was what kept her from panicking in that moment. Rosemary would have time to realize her mistake and correct it.

When she was done, and had washed out the beaker and set it on the drying hearth to bake away any residue for another rinse further down the line, Rosemary finally acknowledged her presence.

“I know what I’m doing,” she said.

Rosewater’s heart skipped a beat. “You do.”

“I’m doing this my way.” Rosemary set the perfume bottle on the counter and drew out two more vials, one filled with a glittering, ruby red perfume, the other with an orange that looked as if it weighed more than it should.

Faint essences of wine and a dinner lingered about them, the natural outgassing past the cork that nothing but a glass stopper with a perfect seal could prevent. But glass stoppers were hard to manufacture with the right precision, and had a tendency to fall out far more easily than cork.

“A full course?” Rosewater asked past the lump in her throat.

“Yes. Roseate wants information, not the pony himself. I don’t have to guess who about.” Rosemary met her eyes briefly. “I don’t need to bring the pony. Only what he knows.”

“That—”

“I’m not you.” Rosemary flashed her a brief, apologetic smile. “I can’t hide myself and another pony. I can barely hide myself, and I know it. I have another week if this doesn’t work. If she doesn’t accept it.”

“Very good planning, then.” Rosewater swallowed. It could work. It would make Roseate angry to be run around like that, but it could work very well. Especially if Roseate gave her the chance to try again inside the original time span.

“Thank you.” Rosemary swallowed and pulled her cloak from the hook beside the door. “I’m going tonight.”

Don’t follow me. That’s what she was saying, and Rosewater heard it plain as day. She wouldn’t. It would mean exile for Rosemary at the least, which meant a fight with Roseate so soon after the last duel, and her heart barely recovered.

She swallowed again, the lump in her throat tight and painful.

“Be safe.”

Even as tears appeared in Rosemary’s eyes, she looked about and strengthened the warding on eavesdropping, adding more power to the glyphs until the walls practically hummed with the silence they imposed.

“I love you, mother,” Rosemary whispered.

Rosewater didn’t correct her, didn’t stifle the secret in that moment. Instead, she pulled her close and rested her muzzle atop her adopted daughter’s head, the mare who was as much hers as Carnation’s child.

“I love you,” Rosewater whispered back. “Come back to me.”

“I promise.”

Author's Notes:

Shoot! Almost forgot a note.

Um. So... yeah.

*munches chips* I don't have popcorn right now.