Twenty years before the Great Succession

Missy Marmalade undid the straps of her bonnet so that when the ladies knocked, she would be doing something with her hoofs.

There was a knock at the door. Missy Marmalade busied her hoofs with the straps and said, “Come in!”

There was a push, a thud, and a muffled curse. Missy Marmalade looked over in alarm. Blast! She had forgotten to undo the door chain. She hurried over, then stopped because she mustn’t hurry, then realized the beat of her hoofs would have been audible, and now they had heard her stop, and in just a moment she was completely paralyzed, frozen by her own thoughts.

“Can we come in?” said a voice, not unkind, after a moment.

“I suppose I might as well let you,” said Missy Marmalade imperiously, about as convincingly a pawn on the second rank imitating a queen. The sound of her own voice made her want to slap herself on the forehead. Nerves, nerves, she had seen this interaction going differently in her head when she’d planned it out last night. Why had that seemed like a good thing to say? It might have been, if she had the commanding tone and the total self-assuredness to go with it. And some amount of social awareness. And some confidence in her ability to carry on a conversation without relying on a pre-written mental script.

On and on with the list of inadequacies. It was the only thing her mother had been able to teach her. While her mother hadn’t done a very good job of teaching her anything about growing fruit, she had taught Missy Marmalade plenty about how to doubt and fear and deny her own self. That and the oranges were all she had ever shown an interest in.

And she was still standing here while the chain on the door rattled and somepony outside coughed and muttered something. What was wrong with her? Aside from the obvious.

Move!

Missy Marmalade took the chain off the door and jerked back as the door shot open. Three mules stood in the way, holding empty wicker baskets. They wore simple dresses that were gray or faded green, and they blinked at her. Then their expressions changed.

Missy Marmalade felt something sliding down the side of her face. “I was just fixing my bonnet,” she said, adjusting it with only a faint look of horror on her face.

“It’s natural to be afraid, grower,” said the closest mule, middle-aged, stepping inside.

“Natural, but unwise,” said the next, quite old, following her in.

The third hovered in the doorway. “Really? That color bonnet with your coat?”

“I’ve worn it since I was a girl!” Missy Marmalade snapped, fumbling with the straps under her chin. She was aware there might not be any “was” about it to the mules, and especially not to the mares of the association. She was also aware she was arguing with a mule. “Anyway, I wasn’t afraid. An Orange ripens when she will.”

“Yes, but the gardener might not care,” retorted the eldest mule. “We bring you the program for the weekend, grower, and ask what you require of us.”

“Though we cannot hold your hoof through it,” said the middle-aged mule, a somewhat nasty look on her face.

“Nor give fashion advice, apparently,” said the third mule, who was quite a bit younger than the other two.

Missy Marmalade felt she was being disrespected. She drew herself up. “I didn’t think an Orange asked the dirt to wait underneath it. It does because it is dirt. Your names are Soil, Buckwheat, and Haymanger, you are servants of this association, and so you are servants of me. I would like to be spoken to as a lady.”

She saw on their faces that she had gone too far. She also felt that she couldn’t back down. She tried to think of a way to do so graciously and failed.

“You are not yet a lady of the association,” said the middle-aged mule, grinning darkly.

“I am!”

“Oh, officially, officially. But not really. Not yet. Not till they’ve seen you, not till they’ve judged.”

“They have no right—”

“Don’t they? If a fruit is not picked off the branch it falls into the mud, however promisingly it once hung.”

“I can pick myself,” Missy Marmalade said.

“Perhaps, but your sweetness will be judged by others.”

“I don’t fear the judgment of those mares!”

“Clearly not, you’re wearing a bonnet that makes you look like a foal and an old lady,” said the youngest mule. “What?” she added. She gave the other two contemptuous looks. “I don’t want to work for some stupid fruit grower association. I’m going to start a flower boutique in Canterlot.”

“The memorial service is this afternoon,” said the eldest mule. “You will not have to speak.”

“I intend to.”

“Very well.”

Missy Marmalade’s mind flashed back to the key, and the cellar, and the documents there that she had made copies of. Some of those copies were in her pack.

She had quite a lot to say about them.

---

Missy Marmalade’s mother had died. Missy wasn’t very upset about this, mostly because her mother had treated her like a cat might treat a duckling that had accidentally imprinted onto it: mild annoyance at being followed around, inborn confusion at the possibility of displaying affection or care, and general disappointment that her shadow wasn’t much good at catching mice or climbing trees. But Missy Marmalade was upset about the farm, and the association, and the key.

The farm because she wasn’t very good at it, and the trees knew. At least she felt like they did. It might have been that she was, what was the word, projecting. But, walking the fields the morning after her mother had passed, the trees seemed to draw away from her. The oranges were hard when she touched them, the skin tough and unyielding and the meat tasteless. In the cold fog it was hard to see where the orchard ended. Chilly and wet, she went back inside and saw the invitation that had been pushed under the door.

So. The fruit business association her mother had belonged to, the Voice of Equestrian Growers, or VEG, had already heard of her mother’s death. Well, that was no surprise. No pony said that the members of the VEG were witches…but you could hear them not saying it, like the silent judgment a fat pony feels when eating a slice of cake in public.

She knew from listening to her mother talk about the VEG that their goal was to maintain prices for seeds and manure and things. “Fair” seemed to mean “at terms we dictate.” And they really didn’t like it when anypony outside their club tried to sell fruit. They couldn’t stop anypony, not by force. But there were rumors: of accidents under healthy trees whose branches snapped and fell all of a sudden, of fertile soil that turned cold and hard and wouldn’t grow so much as mushrooms after a rain, and mushrooms can grow anywhere after a rain, and of sheds that burned down mysteriously in the night. And it was the way her mother had talked about it. Like it was just the same as chasing birds away from the oranges. Like they had a right to push others around, like something was being asked of them when somepony else wanted to maybe have a watermelon vine or sell some strawberries at the local fair. They were a bunch of bullies, and now they wanted her to take her mother’s place.

Well. The Oranges were quitting the fruit business. The growers of the VEG could take their invitation and stuff it up their—stuff it somewhere quite unpleasant.

Then there was the matter of the key. It was lying on her mother’s bedside table. Missy Marmalade left it alone.

So much work to do. The lawyer was coming by tomorrow. There was the funeral, which she had refused to attend: It wouldn’t make a difference to her mother, and it certainly wouldn't make a difference to her.

Now...cleaning, she wanted to clean. Dust everything, boil water and sop the floor and furniture. Suds and sponges and more hot water. Fill the house with steam.

So she did, lighting a fire for more hot water and not even bothering to take a sponge, just drenching the floor and not minding what splashed on the walls. She catalogued in her mind as she went, noting what to throw away, what to sell, what to donate, and what to burn. The proceeds from selling the land the orange trees grew on would be plenty to set her up in Canterlot for a while. The only question was, what would she do there?

She found that she actually liked to clean. It was peaceful and vigorous at the same time, requiring concentration and an attention to detail while also allowing the mind to drift, to imagine, to envision.

She could start a cleaning service. Everypony needed their house clean, especially the busy high-fliers in Canterlot. She could see the newspaper ad already: Write now for a top-to-bottom interior clean that’s as durable as an Earth Pony and leaves the whole house smelling like oranges. Forever. Even if you set everything on fire, it will still smell like oranges. And the air will taste like oranges. And your eyes will water and sting from the orange particles, and you’ll never completely get used to it. And this amazing deal comes with a free T-shirt!

Maybe not.

It was dark out already. Funny how time flies. One moment you’re alive, and the next, whoops, haha, you’ve fallen off the ladder while fixing a branch. Oops, haha, whoops, and the orchards are big, haha, you could just be lying there for hours before anypony finds you, and that’s time plenty for the blood to fill up in your head so that even the Pegasus doctor who rushes there as fast as she can can’t do anything but record the time of death.

Only maybe somepony did hear you, only they just thought you were yelling again. Yelling to come out into the fields. You need help in the fields. You always need help in the damned orange-stinking lily-colored fields. Screaming your head off because it’s so far away. Yelling like you’re the only pony in the world who matters. No pony could possibly be doing anything else important, especially not if they’re your pony, your little pony whose hair you can comb however you want and whose bonnet you can tie just how you like, with a customizable cutie mark and lifelike voice that can say anything you tell it to, no, she couldn’t be doing anything else at all, especially not the one thing she likes to do. No, you’ve made sure she can’t do that, she couldn’t possibly be, so keep on screaming, keep on yelling, she doesn’t treasure these stolen minutes, these rare moments when Missy Marmalade is just...a miss. Without inheritance, without destiny. A face in the crowd. She can see herself. Walking down a Canterlot street. Who’s that? they wonder. I’ve seen many a mare come to make her fortune in Canterlot, but none so striking as that young...miss. Excuse me. Excuse me! Miss! You’ve dropped your...my name is Solar Wind, I’m quite wealthy, may I take you to dinner, miss…?

And she could say anything in response, she might even say, “SHUT UP, YOU OLD HAG!” and it would be the last thing you ever heard her say, it might be the last thing you ever heard at all.

And the key is still there on your bedside table, and she wonders what you might have done with it.

Missy seized the key and held it like a filly with a stolen treat from the kitchen. She looked around to make sure she was alone, which was ridiculous, and, heart pounding, peered under the bed. Nothing. In the cabinet. No. Not under the mat, or behind a loose brick, or in the back of the oven. Where was the door? What did the key open?

In desperation Missy even went out to the old shed that had been in disuse since before she was born. For all the disarray it looked to be in, broken windows and a door that had to be wrenched open, the grooves on the floor where the corner of the door cut in were fairly deep. This was a door that somepony used.

---

Missy picked her way through broken glass and the pieces of a collapsed table, squinting. The shed was full of dust and splinters. At the end of it, behind the remains of a cabinet, was a small black keyhole to a cellar door. The key fit into it perfectly. She left and came back with a lamp and went down the steps into the hollowed-out cellar.

It took her a moment to understand what she was seeing. The cellar was full of papers. They were stuffed into boxes, and written on the boxes were names. There were the names of every major grower of the VEG. She opened one at random and took out a sheet. There was a name on it that she vaguely remembered. Wasn’t it the name of the mare who had been in the news? She had been selling oranges from a tree in her yard. No, wait, she had been making juice, and selling that. No, no, her filly had been selling the juice. From a little stand. Right. And then...the filly had stopped...because….

Oh, Mother.

Missy stuffed that sheet back into its place and looked through the boxes of the major growers, which were overstuffed with papers. The Apple family, the Melon Matriarch and her extended family, the wine clan in Caliponia, who mongered rumors almost as jealously as their grapes, the Cherry Hill Ranch mare, Cherry Jubilee, the Lemon Lady, and the Berry sisters. Every single one. Even the Oranges had a file, Missy Marmalade didn’t know why.

Was there anything about her? Missy looked. No. Nothing that mentioned a Missy Marmalade. Not that there should have been. It would have made no sense.

Missy set the lamp on one of the boxes, took out all of the papers for the Melon Matriarch, and began to read.

---

“I’m sorry it took me so long to meet with you again.”

“That’s quite all right.” The lawyer smiled kindly and patted her hoof. “I understand you were quite distraught at the death of your mother.”

“Yes.”

“I’m pleased to hear there’s nothing to the rumors that you were planning to sell the farm.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Bore, I fully intend to take up my mother’s role as a leading member of the Voice of Equestrian Growers. And I would certainly need my farm for that.”

“Indeed you would.” He risked a smile. “Have you thought at all about doing something to commemorate your mother? The funeral was very small and private, and she was very influential in the community and involved in many organizations. I’m sure a memorial service would be a great opportunity for you to meet those whose lives your mother touched.”

Missy frowned. “Then...oh, this might be silly of me. But I am just a silly girl. All this business is so complicated. And I’m still so sad about Mother. I just want to cry.”

Mr. Bore patted her hoof as desperately as a rabbit thumping to indicate danger, in this case the danger of having to provide emotional comfort, which frightened Mr. Bore. He liked contracts. Contracts didn’t burst into tears and accuse you of neglecting them. And if they took your house, the kids, and a significant fraction of your bank account, at least it was because you had signed them. “There, there. Would you like a hoofkerchief?”

“Yes, please.”

“I...don’t have one. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I offered. Sometimes I...when ponies, I mean, they need things...that aren’t written down...if it had been written down, but it wasn’t….”

“Oh, Mr. Bore.” She smiled weepily at him. “You are such a comfort. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d contact my partner,” Mr. Bore said, relieved to be on firm ground again. “He’s retiring next year, but until then—”

“About the memorial….”

“Yes?”

“Could I...I mean, would it be possible...maybe to have a memorial service at the next meeting of the VEG? Which I believe is very soon?”

Mr. Bore blinked. Then he opened his briefcase and flipped through a frighteningly large stack of papers.

“I don’t see why not,” he said eventually. “The association can refuse, of course, but I don’t know why they should….”

“Could you arrange it? Please?”

“Of course, my dear.”

“Thank you.” She wiped her eyes and smiled at him. “They knew her the best, I think, in their own way. Or rather, she knew them.”

---

It was time for the VEG to meet. Missy Marmalade picked out her best bonnet. Otherwise, she packed lightly. She would only be at the hotel for one night. The meetings went on for longer than that. But the memorial service would be on the first day of the meetings, and she doubted they would ask her to stay after that.

---

They were being too nice.

“Sugar, I was beside myself when I heard about your poor mother,” said Cherry Jubilee. With coiffed hair the color of dark red cherries and a scarf the same pink as cherry blossoms in the spring, Missy Marmalade felt that Cherry Jubilee was laying it on a little too thick. Mother always said that oranges advertised themselves—not that she cared what Mother thought.

“I could hardly contain myself,” agreed Missy Marmalade.

“Your mother was a fine woman,” rasped the sallow Lemon Lady. She was incredibly fat, in contrast to the carefully arranged figure of Cherry Jubilee. Missy Marmalade had been surprised to see that the Melon Matriarch was quite trim. Two of her daughters were in attendance as well. They had expressed their condolences in the briefest possible fashion before retreating to sit and whisper together.

“A fine woman,” the Lemon Lady repeated.

“She had such an effect on me,” said Missy Marmalade.

Green old Granny Smith was sitting a little ways away with her cane over her lap and her straw hat with the green ribbon slightly askew on her head. Missy Marmalade was grateful for the distance. Granny Smith was constantly chewing apple seeds. It stank up her breath and made it bitter. She wasn’t saying much, just “hrumph” and the like.

A wrinkled leg brushed Missy Marmalade and made her jump. The Wine Princess of Equestria, often said to be the wealthiest pony in Equestria, had turned out to be a rather unimpressive-looking reddish-purple Earth Pony whose hoofs were stained with clay. More wrinkles swam over her face when she smiled at Missy Marmalade from under a wide-brimmed sun hat.

“Pomela did a lot for the organization,” she said. “She understood the importance of fruit.”

“Is fruit really worth all this?” Missy Marmalade said.

“What do you mean?”

“The association, an entire hotel floor just for us, all the rules about who can grow fruit and how much of it. I just don’t see the point.”

An obnoxious grinding noise filled the room. Granny Smith had taken out a wooden pipe and was chewing on it.

“Why, sugar,” said Cherry Jubilee in her molasses-sweetened drawl, “if we didn’t grow fruit, all the hard-working ponies of Equestria who look forward to a bowl of cherries in the afternoon would go hungry.”

“I know why fruit exists,” said Missy Marmalade scathingly. “Tell me, why can only the Cherry Hill Ranch grow cherries?”

“Bless your heart! Anypony can grow cherries.”

“Not for mass distribution. They have to pay you a fee and submit to your rules.”

“I don’t make the rules, sugar.”

“But you do have a standing appointment every year with the pony who does.” It wasn’t a difficult guess. Her mother had done the same.

“They told us there was going to be rules, darling. All we could do was ask them to be reasonable.”

“Why would anypony but you all want to make rules about who can grow fruit?”

The leading mares of the VEG looked at each other.

“You mean you don’t know?” said Cherry Jubilee.

“Know what?”

“She doesn’t know,” said the Wine Princess. “Pomela must have never told her.”

A chomp of teeth on a wood pipe made her jump. “She can’t hear the fruit,” said Granny Smith, giving Missy Marmalade a withering look. “Pomela went and had a dud. This filly here is no better than the mules.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“No need. It’s Pomela who owes us an apology, and she was too prideful to give one even when she was alive.”

“Calm down,” said the Melon Matriarch in the commanding tone of a mare who had had over twenty children. “Pomela must have had her reasons. If she’s going to be in the VEG, she should know, so we’ll tell her.”

“She can’t hear ‘em,” said Granny Smith. “How’s she going to be a voice for those as whom she can’t hear?”

“What are you talking about, old woman?”

“Watch your tone,” snapped the Wine Princess. The sun-wrinkled smile never left her face, but her eyes were stern.

“Why should I? I’m not a filly anymore. I am the leading mare of the Orange family. The groves are mine to do with as I wish. I think I shall burn the trees, then sell the land.”

Cherry Jubilee laughed. “She’s got a gutsier mouth than a run-over frog.”

“If you burn the trees,” said Granny Smith, “you will never be able to eat fruit again.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said so,” said Granny Smith with such simplicity that it left Missy Marmalade momentarily off balance.

The conference room filled up with more arrivals while Missy Marmalade tried to think of a retort. This was utter insanity—they thought that growing fruit gave them the right to boss others around. If they knew about the papers in her traveling bag, they would speak to her more politely.

The many Berry sisters entered within minutes of each other. They shot nasty looks at each other while they greeted the other members of the VEG, and none of them sat next to one another. Meanwhile, the peaceful-faced heiress of the fig fortune smiled and blessed everypony with serenity as she moved among the group. “Durian” Diane, as she was called, sent a wave through the crowd as everypony scrambled to get away from her unbearable smell. Just Peachy, of the Peach clan in South Canterlina, and Pearl, who had a pear operation up in Ostleregon, entered chatting together and lost their hats as they tried to walk through the door at the same time. There was Tomato Tammy and the Eggplant Countess, walking in quickly and sitting down together, looking like they knew they didn’t belong. Apparently the Squashmistress had hurt herself while playing sports and wasn’t able to make it.

Missy Marmalade was overwhelmed by middle-aged and elderly mares introducing themselves to her and offering condolences and sharing stories of good things “Pomela” had done. Missy Marmalade said polite things in response and thought: She was keeping records on every single one of you. Every single dirty underhoof thing you did. All of you have been telling me about how my mother did so much for the association. She did this as well. She gave me the weapon to destroy it.

The memorial service began. Just Peachy smiled sadly at them all. “One of our own has died.”

“Come with me,” murmured Cherry Jubilee into her ear. Missy Marmalade, who didn’t care to listen to more lies about her mother, ducked out and followed her into a side room.

“Have a cherry,” said Cherry Jubilee, offering her a small bowl of red cherries she had procured from who-knows-where.

“No thanks.” Missy Marmalade knew better than to accept fruit that you didn’t know was washed. Otherwise it could have anything on it—charms, curses, prophecies. Sometimes the editorials did a job of not calling the VEG a coven. Missy Marmalade didn’t believe in witches, but…better not to risk it.

“Suit yourself, sug.” Cherry Jubilee popped one into her mouth and spat the pit aside.

Granny Smith, the Lemon Lady, and the Wine Princess were also there. The Melon Matriarch was not—probably talking to the others in the main room; she was very social, Missy Marmalade had noticed.

“I knew your grandmother,” said Granny Smith. “Sunny Jam. Good mare. Good head on her.”

“I know about your daughter,” said Missy Marmalade. “She doesn’t want to take care of apples all day, does she? That’s why you’re still the leading mare of the Apple family.”

Granny Smith sighed and took out her pipe. “This girl don’t know when ponies are trying to help her.”

Missy Marmalade was fascinated despite herself. “What’s that smell?”

“Apple tobacco.”

“You mean tobacco flavored with apples?”

“Did I say that? I said apple tobacco.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“Well. There’s no such thing.” Granny Smith chewed the pipe thoughtfully. “I reckon I must be dreaming then.”

“Enough,” said the Wine Princess before Missy Marmalade could retort. “If you want to be in the VEG, then you need to listen to what we have to say.”

“All of them out there know this?”

“Of course.”

“Then tell me.”

Cherry Jubilee held up a cherry and squished it. “See the red stuff?”

“...The juice?”

“That’s right, sugar, the juice. Know what juice is?”

“Water and fruit stuff?” Missy Marmalade hazarded. She had never taken to fruit the way her mother had wanted.

“Water and fruit stuff,” Granny Smith snorted. “Why, that’s exactly right.”

“None of us know how to grow fruit,” the Lemon Lady said. “The fruit knows, somehow. It’s hard to explain...inside the fruit is a little code. This code tells the seed how to become fruit.”

“I’ve never seen any code inside an orange.”

“That’s because it’s really small.” The Lemon Lady grinned and patted her sides. “Not like me.” She really was jaundiced, not just yellow. Missy Marmalade wondered if she was healthy.

“I thought fruit doesn’t grow itself,” said Missy Marmalade. “That’s why Earth Ponies have to help—you know, talking to the plants and things.”

“Things,” sneered Granny Smith.

“If you’re going to mock me,” Missy Marmalade said angrily, “then I think I will choose better company.” She spun on her heel and slammed the door on her way out, reentering the main auditorium. It was quite a good heel-spin, she thought, they wouldn’t take her so lightly next time. Next time, when they came to beg.

She was last to speak at the memorial service. The mares of the association were anxious to stand up by this point, but they remained patient out of respect for Pomela’s daughter, who was also the leading mare of the Orange family now. Very fine old acres they had. Very fine trees. Stores of rare seeds.

She stood at the microphone. She had imagined this in her head over and over.

“My mother was lying to you all.” She didn’t wait for a response, just tore pages out of her bag. “Right here. She documented every scummy, shady, and outright criminal thing every one of you ever did. The ponies you violenced, bullied, intimidated, extorted—they’re going to have their day in court. And some of you are going to have many nights in jail.”

“Oh, sugar,” sighed Cherry Jubilee, watching from the door. Beside her, the Wine Princess shook her head, while Granny Smith laughed quietly.

Missy Marmalade raised her voice. Some of them were standing up, trying to say things. She talked over them. “I know. I know because I was raised as one of you. But I never belonged. My mother was a horrible, forceful mare who saw everypony around her as gardening tools. I know how you do things, I know how you operate, and I know how to take you down.

“Here’s what’s going to happen.” She was shouting now over the tumult. “First, SHUT UP!”

They did, for the most part.

Missy Marmalade was panting, grinning. “That felt good. Shut up, you stupid hags. Now here’s what’s going to happen. You’re selling your fields, all of you, liquiding at market value or less. I don’t care if they get burned down or what, all of you are out of fruit. And you’ll publicly apologize, and never try to stop anypony from growing what they want, selling what they want, or how they want, or anything—you’re all through, finished. Understand? Or I go to the press with these documents.”

“Or we’ll trample you,” said the Melon Matriarch after a moment. The mass of angry ponies surged toward the stage.

“No!” said Cherry Jubilee with a voice that cracked like a whip. All motion stopped.

(Not all the members of the VEG were equally puissant. They said Cherry Jubilee could hear the whisper of a cherry in the middle of a thunderstorm.)

Cherry Jubilee’s voice was as calm as the slow drizzle of molasses. “I tried to tell you, sugar, I really did. You wouldn’t listen.”

(They said a lot more about Cherry Jubilee than that.)

“What are you talking about?” Missy Marmalade demanded. She was shaking—she hadn’t quite thought about what would happen after she gave her grand speech.

Cherry Jubilee held up a cherry and squished it. “See the red stuff?”

“It’s water and fruit stuff,” said Missy Marmalade, looking for the trap.

“That’s right. Do you know where it comes from?”

Missy Marmalade hesitated. “The fruit comes from the little code, if you weren’t lying. And the water comes from the rain labs in Cloudsdale.”

“That’s right. Now, would you like to have the rest of this conversation in private?”

---

“We’re running out of water?” said Missy Marmalade, horrified. She felt weak, unsteady—she needed to sit down, and slumped on a stool nearby.

“Sugar, relax,” said Cherry Jubilee. Granny Smith was also there, for some reason, as was the Lemon Lady. “We’re not running out exactly. But water dies easily. The population of Equestria is growing, and agricultural methods are outpacing the work the weather Pegasi use. Have you ever seen dead water? It’s like rubbery custard gone bad.”

“Why can’t you just use dead water to grow the fruit?” Missy Marmalade asked desperately.

“I’ve never tried,” said Cherry Jubilee. “I wouldn’t feed a cherry grown with dead water to my worst enemy.”

“Use less water then!”

“That’s what we do,” rasped the Lemon Lady. “That’s the point. There’s a yearly quota for fruit production, which is enforced through monopolies on markets. If we let just any filly or colt open up a lemonade stand, the result would be chaos.”

Missy Marmalade shook her head, reeling. Her mother—the papers—this wasn’t right, this couldn’t be. “You’re criminals! Thugs!”

“We protect Equestria, sug,” Cherry Jubilee said.

“No, no, no! You can’t trample a lemonade stand—”

“Every fruit has a voice inside it—” Granny Smith began loudly.

“IT’S JUST FRUIT, YOU OLD HAG!”

“Just?” Granny Smith said. “Just? Who is this, she ain’t the granddaughter of Sunny Jam.”

Missy Marmalade glowered at her. Her mother and all her friends were evil. She had known that less than ten minutes ago. She had to find her way back to that world.

“Done whining?” Granny Smith shifted her pipe around in her mouth. “As I was saying, every fruit has a voice inside it. It’s a voice that asks for air and light and water. Well, it’s more like a foal demanding, not asking so much. You got to discipline them a bit. Raise ‘em right. Anyway, point is, the voices are getting weaker.”

“Weaker?”

“Quality of water keeps degrading. A little bit of life gets lost permanently every cycle. Cheapest water is what’s closest by, of course, so they keep reusing the same stuff. You can taste it in our imitators; the water they’ve got is too cheap to get the fruit to ferment right. They end up mixing it with cornstarch to get there. It don’t taste right, and it ain’t good for you neither.”

Missy Marmalade felt dizzy. If what they were saying was true, then Equestria was on the verge of a major crisis. Forget ponies needing licenses to grow fruit, the whole thing needed to be shut down. How much water did Equestria have? How long would it last? She hunched over and held her head between her knees, breathing hard. It had to be a lie. “No, no, no—you’re criminals—”

Cherry Jubilee was beside her, stroking her mane and murmuring. “Try a cherry. Go on,” she added when Missy Marmalade hesitated.

Missy Marmalade got her breathing under control long enough to eat most of the cherry, woozily spitting the rest out onto the floor. “It’s very sweet,” she said.

“Yes. The magic is lasting. For now. But you understand now, don’t you, sugar?”

There was a pit in Missy Marmalade’s stomach that had nothing to do with the cherry. “Yes,” she said. “I understand.” But my mother was still evil—and so are you. So are you all. They don’t call you witches, but you can hear them not saying it. And I can hear things that you all can’t. I’m not going to sit on my wicker throne and push ponies around and call myself a savior. I’m going to solve this problem. And if that means getting rid of you and your farms….

---

“Wait,” said Granny Smith to her as the other mares left the room. Missy Marmalade stayed where she was.

“Are you going to scold me for wasting fruit?” she said, nodding at the mostly-eaten cherry on the floor.

“A rat’ll eat it,” said Granny Smith evenly. “No, I wanted to talk about your mother.”

“She—”

“Your mother knew the land. She was the sun’s daughter. No mare ever did work with the morning like she did.”

Missy Marmalade swallowed a lump in her throat. “You didn’t know her. What she was like.”

“Oh, she was bad all right. Cold and hard. I think there’s a few mules who might say the same of you.”

Missy Marmalade looked up sharply. Granny Smith shook her head. “Know why they carry empty wicker baskets?”

“To show no favoritism,” Missy Marmalade said.

“Take the dirt away, and there is no fruit. No trees—and then we’d have to figure out to make leaves like they have, to have something to strain the sunlight through and make oxygen. I reckon the Pegasi in Cloudsdale could come up with something. But it wouldn’t be as good.”

“They’re just mules,” Missy Marmalade protested.

“That’s true. Very true.” Granny Smith turned and opened the door to leave. “Your mother always sent them several bushels every season. A good farmer feeds the dirt.”

“Is the dirt dying too?” Missy Marmalade said sarcastically.

“The way I see it, the world died a long time ago. Equestria’s like a zombie. Oh, it’s up and moving, but you can see the skin sliding off, and the missing bones and organs. We’re all scurrying around trying to keep it going. But it won’t last. But while it does, feed the dirt.”

She left and closed the door behind her.

---

“What did you want to do, if not farming?” Cherry Jubilee asked. The two of them were watching the papers burn behind the old abandoned shed.

“Draw,” said Missy Marmalade.

“Your mother wouldn’t let you,” Cherry Jubilee guessed. “Took away your pencils and chalk and anything you liked to draw on.”

“How did you….”

“She couldn’t let you be distracted. You need to listen to the fruit to be a grower. That means quieting the voice inside your own head.”

“It hurts my soul not to draw,” said Missy Marmalade. “And when I am drawing...I can’t explain it, but I know it’s what I’m meant to do.”

“We all make sacrifices. If you want to help.”

“You’re a witch,” said Missy Marmalade. She was close to tears.

“We all make sacrifices,” Cherry Jubilee repeated.

They watched the papers burn until the last of them were nothing but ash. It was a good thing, thought Missy Marmalade, that she had spent that horrible week in the cellar copying them all out. Mr. Bore would hold onto them—for now.

Next Chapter: Vela Flicker Estimated time remaining: 4 Hours, 54 Minutes