Jack took a deep breath, trying to calm down her frantic heart rate. She glanced over the railing once more. Twila and Rarity both sat mutely on the ground, with Pinkie and Chylene quietly trying to console them.

The blonde somberly shook her head, resting her hands on the railing. She saw Dash quickly approaching and tried her best to get her head back into the game. “Find anythin'?”

Isabelle landed gracefully onto the metal catwalk, then seemed to find interest in her jacket's zipper. She played with it as she spoke to the farmer. “I've been by every box and seat here, bro. If there was anyone around, he's gotta be gone by now.”

“Dammit!” the farmer hotly swore, stomping her foot and slamming her palm onto the guardrail. She rubbed her face, trying desperately to think of another plan. She decided on the practical one. “Alright. Let's jus' get in touch with the principal, I guess. We tell 'em wha--”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dash interrupted, swiftly crossing her arms. “We can't just tell anyone about this! That'll cause more problems than it would solve.”

Jack scowled, narrowing her eyes. “Fer God's sake, look at her!” she exclaimed, pointing down at Rarity's limp form. “What else are we supposed ta do?! Ya tellin' me we shouldn't bring this up ta someone?!”

“Yeah,” Dash briskly nodded, taking a step closer and tilting her head up to meet Jack's gaze. “That's exactly what I'm saying.”

Jack clenched her fists tightly at her side. “Listen--”

“No, you listen, hayseed,” Isabelle quickly shot back, pointing a finger at Jack's face. “It's obvious that whoever sabotaged that sandbag was trying to get either Rarity or Twila to make a scene. If word gets out that this happened, we're playing into his damn hands! He's got an angle on this, I'm sure of it,” Dash steadfastly argued.

“Why them, Dash?” Jack asked, taking another deep breath.

“Influence.”

The farmer squinted at the lithe woman. “Influence?” she repeated.

Isabelle leaned back against the railing, flicking her rose colored eyes towards her injured friends. “Look,” she started, speaking as calmly as she could. “Let's get them back to their room, then I promise you I'll talk about it, ok?”

Jack stared hard at the athlete for a moment. Finally, she gave in, sighing and reluctantly nodding.

Chylene offered to stay the night with Rarity and Twila. Jack thought that was sweet of her, and the farmer was pleased as punch when the girls accepted the offer. Pinkie returned to the bakery, after a constant reassurance that they'd be fine without her. An hour later, Jack found herself back at her dorm, lazily thumbing through a mathematics book for one of her classes tomorrow.

The woman didn't understand how she seemed to routinely get to places faster than Isabelle—that woman had proved she was kind of a big deal when it came to speed.

Granted, Dash also proved she was like a slug when she wasn't out and about, so it kind of balanced itself out.

Sort of.

Either way, Jack was more than relieved to shut her book when Dash came barreling through the door clutching a small notebook in one hand and the other placed in her jacket pocket.

“What kept ya?” the farmer drawled.

“Had to take care of a few things,” Dash evasively answered, taking out a coil of cut rope and putting it on her bed's footrest. She unzipped her jacket, tossing it to the side, then crashed, her arms splayed out on top of her mattress and her feet sinking to the floor. She let out a contented groan.

“I think ya still owe me a talk, Dash. Yer not goin' ta sleep yet.”

The athlete rolled her eyes. “I know, bro. Just felt nice getting off my feet.”

You can fly! Jack's mind screamed loudly. She crossed her arms, waiting for Isabelle to begin to speak.

“Alright. So, we'll do a bit of note swapping—make sure we're on the same page first. Ready, bro?”

“I'm game.” Jack nodded. “Guess we'll start off with the elephant in the room: why them? I know ya said influence earlier, but what do ya mean by that?”

Dash opened up the small notebook and glanced over to Jack. “Rarity's the daughter of a diplomat that's been dealing with one of the most volatile and technologically advanced countries in the world. Twi's the protege of a living legend and a potential contender for the crown, once Luna and Celestia's reign ends. If they aren't girls with influence, I don't know who is.”

“So ya reckon that'd be why someone was tryin' ta off one of 'em?” Jack asked, a pit forming in her stomach.

Isabelle shook her head. “See? Like I said earlier: I don't think our perp was trying to kill either of them.” She rose off the bed and began pacing across the room. “Think about it, bro: it'd be a lot easier to take either one of them out with a poisoned drink, o-or something along those lines.” Dash rubbed at her temple, thinking far harder than Jack would have expected from the athlete. “A sandbag has too many potential ways it could fail. No, I think he was trying to scare one of them and cause an incident with the academy—I bet my life on it.” Dash tapped the small notebook in her hands. “Now, what do we know about the assailant?” She glanced over to Jack for an answer.

“Uh...” the farmer trailed off, blinking.

“Come on. Lay it on me, bro,” Dash encouraged. “There's gotta be more than just empty space in your noggin.”

The farmer shot a glare towards Isabelle, who earnestly smirked. “Well,” Jack started. “I'm gonna guess the guy was soul-folk. It's how he timed splittin' the last bit of rope holdin' that sandbag up.”

“And?”

“An'... an' he must have some vendetta against one of 'em. O-or their family.”

“So an upper-crust type soul-folk? Doesn't help narrow the playing field, especially in this school,” Isabelle said plainly.

“One that knew Twila was involved with the play,” Jack realized.

Dash stopped pacing. She put a hand to her chin in thought. “Mmm, maybe, hayseed. It's a bit of a stretch, but for now we can assume the guy either pays attention to plays, or he was a part of this one in some way. I guess we can check everyone that's been involved in the play, but man, that's a lot of legwork.”

“We could get a teacher ta give us a hand.”

Dash vehemently shook her head. “No teachers. I can count the amount of them I trust on one finger, and Iron Will isn't going to be around until Monday.”

“Ya really think it's one of the teachers?”

“They're almost all soul-folk from upper class families—it's a damn good possibility.”

“Who do ya trust with this, Dashie?”

“Let me put it this way, hayseed: I've known you what, three days? Yet here I am telling you this.”

Jack nodded, honored by Isabelle's faith in her. “So, what do we do?” she asked. While Jack was proud of her ability to think on her feet, actual plans she preferred to leave to different heads than hers, and the athlete seemed to have a surprisingly good gasp on the situation.

Isabelle smirked. “Guess that's all that really matters, huh?” She moved to the chest of drawers, pulling out some underwear. “I'm getting ready for bed while we do this—I'm beat.” She went into the bathroom to change. “Anyway,” Dash continued, the bathroom door muffling her words slightly. “We need to keep an eye on the girls, make sure nobody messes with them. I'm going to count on you to take care of that.”

“And what will you be doin'?” Jack asked, feeling quite stupid talking to an empty room.

“See that coil of rope on the bed? When Twi's feeling up to it, I'm going to see if she can trace it.”

Jack glanced over at the woman's bed. “Trace it?”

“Yeah. We'll be able to identify what color of aura the perp used to snap the rope—that'll give us something a bit more solid to work with.”

“An' that, uh, helps us?” Jack slowly questioned, mouthing the word 'Perp.' It seemed to be an odd word choice coming from a gal like Isabelle.

Dash opened the door, lazily plodding into the room. “It lowers our suspect pool. After the school soul-folk go to, they have to register what color their magical aura is. If the guy didn't take a masking agent beforehand, well... every little bit helps.” The athlete landed on the top of her bed and shut her eyes. “Care to flick the switch for me, bro? Thanks.”

“Sure, 'bro,'” Jack scoffed, moving to the light switch and flicking it off. She changed into her own sleepwear and laid down. After a moment, she decided to speak. “Hey Dash?”

“Mmm?” came the sleepy reply.

“How ya know 'bout this stuff? Like, the aura things an' all that?”

“I'm a Ritter. Got a lotta family that have worked as detectives an...” she trailed off, sleep clearly overtaking her words at this point.

Jack sighed in exasperation at her friend and futilely tried to get some sleep of her own.

Rarity woke up early, far earlier than what was proper for a lady of her stature. She glanced to the nightstand by her bed. The digital clock rendered a mute judgment upon the woman.

Four A.M.

Honestly, after what happened yesterday, she was surprised she had nodded off at all. It took Twila and Chylene a sleeping pill in order to even begin to calm down enough to rest.

The high-class woman sat up, turning her head to the left and staring out into the dark night. Or morning, depending on your perspective.

You almost died, a small, terse voice in her head said.

But she rescued me, another spoke up.

Rarity quietly took a deep breath, hugging her knees close to her chest as she continued to take in the window's view.

She owed the woman something special, that was for certain. It wasn't often someone that saved your life was interested in you. It was flattering, that was for certain, and Jack might make an interesting foil to her own elegant style that was both contemporary and daring. It was just a shame that Rarity couldn't call Jack handsome.

Could she?

She pondered on this briefly, putting a delicate finger to her full lips. She certainly wouldn't call Jack beautiful or handsome—she wasn't proportioned right, she was too tall, and far too crude to be treated like a lady. But... she had a certain... je ne sais quoi about her that Rarity was developing an interest in.

Rarity rose from her bed, intending to take a shower. After all that had happened yesterday, she felt like talking to someone, someone that wouldn't skirt around the issue quite as much as Chylene and Twila. They were good friends, both of them, but sometimes a blunt, honest answer was the best.

Jack awoke to a gentle rapping on her door. The farmer glanced at her clock. Four-Thirty.

“This better be important,” she groaned, rising from the bed and wincing as she automatically put pressure on her right shoulder. She heard Isabelle, still snoring and still dead to the world. It was times like these Jack wished she was a heavier sleeper.

She moved to the door and threw it open. Rarity stood in the hallway looking as radiant as ever, despite the ungodly hour.

The beauty looked over the farmer, the coy half-smile she had slowly vaporizing as she regarded Jack's bra and men's boxers. “You hardly seem dressed proper for answering guests.”

“Wasn't expectin' any till a more reasonable time,” Jack said, leaning against the doorframe. “Somethin' I can do fer ya?”

Rarity shuffled on her feet, not quite sure how to start. She decided on the direct approach. “I never thanked you for saving my life yesterday.”

The farmer shrugged. “Didn't do it fer thanks, Rare. Jus' saw you were in trouble.”

“Regardless, I want to do something for you, darling,” the woman replied. She gave a slow glance up and down Jack's body. “Turn around for me.”

“Do what now?” The farmer blinked

Rarity made a small circling motion with her finger, playfully commanding Jack with a raise of her violet eyebrow. Jack rolled her eyes and did as instructed.

“Hmm. I see. I believe this could work.”

“What could work, Rare?” the farmer asked, exasperation in her voice.

“I'm going to make you some clothing for the play. Would you prefer a suit or dress?”

“When did I say I was goin' ta that?” Jack was getting tired of asking questions.

Rarity smiled. “I have two tickets to a box seat for tonight's performance. It would be a shame to have to waste one, and, well...” Her expression faded briefly as she thought back to yesterday. “I sincerely do owe you, Jack. It would please me to no great end if you accompany me to the showing. So, I'll ask again: dress, or suit?”

The farmer put a hand to her temple, sighing. She was going to decline the offer—plays really weren't her scene, after all--but she had a thought. Dash mentioned keeping an eye on the girls, what better way than to be stuck with one all evening? With Rarity taken care off, all she had to do was keep Pinkie and Chylene around Twila and they'd be set.

“Ain't never been one fer dresses,” Jack finally answered. “I guess I'll take a suit.”

“Fabulous, darling!” Rarity said. “I have just the thing—it's a cancellation from a male client I have in Manhattan. Italian style; all I need to do is resize the chest, tighten the hips and add a slight extension to the legs. You'll look ravishing, I guarantee it!” she said, giving a small flourish with her hand. “I'll ask you to arrive at my establishment at five to pick up your suit. In addition, we'll need to gloss over a few of your flaws.”

“What do ya mean, 'flaws?' I'm jus' fine as-is,” Jack snapped, staring down at the classy woman.

“You have a certain rustic charm, I will agree. However, with just a bit of makeup and eyeliner, we could--”

“No deal,” the farmer replied. “I ain't some sorta doll ya can jus' do as ya please with. We ain't touchin' any of that fancy makeup ta my face.”

“Stubborn as a mule,” Rarity said under her breath. “Fine,” she conceded.

“Now... was there anythin' else? I'm still tired as hell an' my shoulder's killin' me.” Jack stifled a yawn.

Rarity swallowed. “T-there is one more thing. Regarding yesterday: do you suppose there was a... more sinister thing at play than just chance? I mean, after the fall, I honestly cannot remember much, and, after speaking with Twila, she's the same way. However, I do recall you spending time with Isabelle on the catwalk after the fact. Was the sandbag... sabotaged in some way?”

The two glanced at one another; Jack wore a mask of borderline indifference. Rarity had worry lines across her perfect face. Before the air became thick with tension, the farmer nodded.

“It was,” she said.

“Oh,” the classy woman quietly replied, her blue eyes flicking nervously down the brightly lit hallway. “D-do you suppose whoever it was that did it... do you suppose he'll try again?”

Jack felt torn between comforting the clearly uneased woman with a lie, or telling the truth. Neither one seemed all that appealing at the moment.

“I can't lie ta ya sugar: I jus' don't know. But I'll say this: ya got good friends around ta watch yer back, myself included. If I can at all, Rare, I'm gonna make sure nobody hurts ya.”

“Alright,” Rarity quietly said. “I wanted the truth of the matter. For that, I thank you.”

Jack offered a tired smile, casually putting a hand to her hip. “Ain't no problem, I--”

“I'm sorry for cutting this conversation short,” Rarity interrupted, glancing down at a gold pocketwatch she had been carrying in a side pocket. “But I absolutely must leave for St. Charles now if I want to make it to my shop and prepare for the show tonight. Try to arrive at the boutique by five. We'll skip the makeup like you requested—but we are doing your hair. I refuse to walk arm-in-arm through the school with someone who looks like she has a fear of combs.” Rarity quickly started to briskly walk down the hallway, giving a quick wave behind her. “I'll see you on towards the evening, darling!”

Jack stared after the woman, dumbfounded. After a beat, she spoke to herself. “Arm-in-arm? What she think this is, some kinda date?”

“I don't care what it's supposed to be, just shut the damn door,” Dash sourly snapped, her agony muffled by the pillow she threw over her head to try and block the hallway's light.

Morning came and went for the farmer; she was surprised how... normal everything seemed after yesterday's excitement. She went to her mathematics class like nothing had happened and suffered through it with only the vaguest notion of what the teacher was talking about. She was thankful when lunchtime rolled around, not so much so she could eat, due to a hearty breakfast of eight pancakes and smoked ham, but just so she could escape that awful class and move onto English; at least that was something she was fluent in.

The farmer took her lunch time to travel to the front of the school and rest under a tree, crossing her arms behind her head and sitting her hat low enough on her brow that the rim gave her eyes a hefty amount of shade.

She was seconds away from nodding off when an ear splitting voice called out directly into her ear.

“Hiya Jack!” Pinkie shouted.

“Bwah!” the farmer unintelligibly cried with a yelp, jerking awake. She took a deep breath when she saw who had awoken her and put a hand to her furiously beating heart. “Shootfire, Pinkie! Ya scared the livin' daylights outta me.”

“Sorry! I just looked over and I thought to myself 'Hmm, Jack seems like she's in deep thought,' so I thought I'd come over and ask you what you were thinking about, because I've always heard that misery loves company, right? So why not deep thoughts, too? We could be, like, dou--”

Jack quickly shook her head, interrupting the bubbly girl in the middle of her tangent. “Wasn't thinkin', I was jus' nappin'. After yesterday an' this mornin', I'm plumb tuckered out.”

Pinkie seemed to lose a bit of her exuberance at the farmer mentioning yesterday. She plopped down, sitting her rump ungracefully on the grass. “What happened this morning?” she asked.

“Wasn't nothin' bad,” Jack reassured, then paused. “A-at least I don't think it was.” The farmer put her hands in her pockets. “We'll... I dunno now. Uh, Pinkie, can ya keep a secret?”

“Can I?! I wrote the book on keeping secrets!” The pink-haired girl said with a smile, putting a thumb to her chest and nodding. "Of course, there was a problem with the copyright claim, so I didn't get credit on any of the editions, but the sentiment's there!"

The farmer blinked at Diane's proclamation. “W-well then... alright, I'll trust ya.” She took a breath. “Ya know Rarity?” She paused, rolling her eyes. “'Course ya do, heck, you've been here longer than I have.” Jack muttered under her breath, then tried to continue, “I think she jus' asked me out on a date.”

Pinkie's smile widened even farther. “Oh! That's great, Jack! I'm sure you two will have oodles of fun!”

“Will I?” Jack asked herself. “I-I mean, I ain't never really been the, uh, datin' type, ya know?”

Diane cocked her head to the side. “Are you saying you've never been on a date before?”

“Uh, well...” the farmer trailed off. She had a few admirers of her looks back at the farm (or, to be more accurate, at the bar near the farm), but none of them had really offered anything more than obvious pick-up lines that were spoken half in jest.

That was the downside of living by such an incredibly small town—she had history with everyone that lived there. Even now most saw Jack as she was when she was a kid: a tough little girl that could fight, spit, smoke, and cuss as well as any of the boys.

The 'just one of the guys' mantra really didn't do wonders for her in the world of dating. Not that she had the time to go out on dates growing up anyway, what with co-owning a large farm, raising her younger sister, and taking care of her ailing grandma.

“No,” the farmer finally admitted. “I ain't never really been on a 'official' date before.”

“Wow, this is going to be fun!” Pinkie chirped, excitement oozing from her pores as she clapped her hands.

“Yeah, fun,” she dryly replied, rolling her eyes. “I'm sure it'll be fun sittin' through a play with a gal that I wanna strangle on occasion.”

Diane gave a shake of her head. “You're such a silly goose! You only go on dates with people you like, Jack! You really are new at this!”

Jack held her tongue. Barely.

The pink-haired girl raised a hand to her mouth and leaned forward. “Does Auntie Pinkie need to give you some date advice?” she whispered.

“No,” Jack quickly said, trying to sound as polite as possible. “No. Please no.”

“Aw,” Diane said, frowning in defeat. “But I had so many good tips, like 'spare the rod and spoil the girl!'” She paused, “Actually, I'm not sure about that one. Maybe it's 'a fool and his money are soon parted.' No. I think that's advice for bankers.” Pinkie looked up towards the sky, her tongue peeking out of the corner of her mouth as she thought. “Hmm. This advice business is hard.” Finally, she clapped her hands, rising with incredible speed. “I guess I'll just say: Be yourself!”

“I ain't never gonna be nobody else, girl.”

The clock struck five just as Jack raised a hand to knock at Rarity's boutique door. It looked like the store had closed early—the sign was turned over and the lights in the businesses lobby were dimmed.

Jack still couldn't believe she was doing this. It was one thing to agree to go on a date with a gal like Rarity, but this was going to be so dull. She could feel her body sink just at the thought of having to wade through a bunch of people on stage singing about their thoughts and feelings, then Rarity would gush about their thoughts and feelings to Jack, then she'd have to nod and pretend she was listening and interested in their thoughts and feelings.

The farmer could feel a faint headache coming on.

Just as she prepared to knock at the door again, Jack saw Rarity through the door's window, briskly walking to let her in. She opened the door and gestured inside. Jack took the moment to look over her date.

Rarity was already wearing makeup and in her evening attire. She wore the quintessential red dress. Strapless, short, and hugged her curvacious body tighter than a cup holding a stiff drink At her neckline was a pendent housing three diamonds that complemented the mark on her cheek. This was finished off by a pair of stilettos that rose her a good three inches from her normal height, putting the top of her head at Jack's jawline.

The classy woman gave a casual toss of her violet, curled hair and flashed a confident smile. “How do I look, darling?” she cooed, fluttering her long eyelashes.

“Ya look pretty.” Jack nodded, noting with surprise as Rarity frowned slightly.

“Not 'ravishing,' or 'daring,' or...?” she hinted.

The farmer scratched at her neck, unsure of what to say to appease Rarity. “Uh... ya look really pretty?” she offered.

Rarity rolled her eyes. “Close enough,” she said under her breath, before adopting a cheery smile, clasping her hands together. “Well, I suppose we should finish getting you ready for the soiree, should we not?”

Jack shrugged. “I reckon we pop on my duds an' mosey on out there. Shouldn't take too long.”

The tailor briskly shook her head, offering a shaky laugh. “Dear, you are in desperate need of at least some foundation on your face, we can lighten your tan slightly and...” She paused, putting a thumb to her chin in thought. “And I suppose I can lend you an earring or two—would you like drop earrings? I think you would look fabulous with a pair of silver drop earrings—then we can add just a bit of eyeliner to draw attention to your face, then--”

“Nope,” Jack dismissed with a wave of her hand. “We're gettin' me suited up. That's it. That's all we agreed to.”

“But--”

“Deal's a deal,” Jack said with finality, crossing her arms. “An' I sure as sugar didn't agree ta havin' globs of makeup slathered on me.”

“You stubborn mule,” Rarity hissed, turning her nose up and mirroring Jack, crossing her own arms and looking away from the farmer.

“Better a mule than an ass,” Jack retorted.

Rarity paused, briefly forgetting their spat. “Those are the same thing.”

The farmer shook her head. “Asses can be bred ta make mules, sugar. There's a difference.”

Rarity gave a surprised tilt of her head, blinking at the sudden revelation. “Oh. Well... I’ll admit defeat regarding that, then,” she easily answered. “Now, returning to our earlier conversation: I believe we were at the point where we agree to compromise—I at least get you a pair of shoes, fix your hair, and nothing else. ”

“Compromise is when I get somethin' outta it. Right now you jus' get yer way.”

“I won't say a word about your fashion choices or uncivilized banter for a whole month.”

“Deal,” Jack said so quickly Rarity almost felt insulted.

Rarity got to work quickly after that, taking Jack to the back of the store and down a small hallway with doors on either side that the farmer assumed were for changing clothes. At the end of the hallway was a spiral staircase heading upstairs. They climbed it and came to a well designed lounge, with two comfortable looking couches and a chic coffee table in the center. Framed photographs lined the top of the bookshelf to Jack's left and sleek oil paintings covered most of the white walls. In the far right corner of the lounge was a piano that must have cost a fortune. It sat next to a glass door that led out to a small patio.

Rarity gave a small gesture to the couch. “I insist, make yourself at home. I will be but a moment.” She walked off, moving past two doors and entering one at the far end of the room.

Jack moved into the room, giving a small press at the backrest of the couch nearest her. It nearly absorbed her hand, swallowing it inside the folds of stuffing and black leather.

The farmer decided to take a look at the photographs.

They seemed to be mostly images of a young girl with two-toned fluffy hair that reminded Jack of cotton candy. In each, the child seemed to be having the time of her life, first one at a beach, then one taken a few years later near the Eiffel Tower, lastly, one with the girl caked in mud and wrestling a hog near an off-white fence that had obviously seen a few years of work.

Guessin' Rarity wasn't a happy camper with that last one, Jack figured. She placed this one back and saw one more that caught her eye, resting like a gem among stones.

It was a family portrait, taken near a cherry tree in spring. Rarity stood at the forefront, a young teenager crossing her arms and, judging by her exasperated frown, in the middle of rolling her eyes. Next to her in the foreground was the same girl that was the focus of the other photos—in this shot, she was a young child of about five or six.

Behind them in the background were two others. A nondescript woman who might have been quite the looker in her younger years, and a middle age man with a thick brown mustache. The straw hat he wore clashed so violently with the black business suit strapped to his bulky frame that even Jack's own inadequate fashion sense was screaming alarms.

The southerner couldn't help it. She chuckled, shaking her head in bemusement.

“I see you've stumbled upon my family's dark secret. My own father can't accessorize.” Rarity dramatically said, stepping back into the lounge with a well-pressed and crisp suit dangling from her forearm. “It's a dreadful fact,” she bemoaned, putting the back of her free hand to her forehead and pretending to swoon.

“Judgin' by the picture, ya felt the same way then too.”

“Absolutely,” she agreed. “Why, if Stephine wasn't around, I'm quite sure I would have boxed his ears. It's bad enough knowing he wears that tattered thing during business—it's worse knowing that it made it onto our last family portrait.”

“Stephine?” Jack parroted.

“Yes, my younger sister. She is quite the handful at times, but she's a sweetie under her more... overzealous attempts at helping.” Rarity gestured to the piano. “And she is quite musically inclined, if I say so myself. She picked up a rough grasp of piano mere moments after being introduced to it. I have a suspicion that's what she'll earn her mark in.”

“Ain't that somethin',” Jack said, pleasantly surprised. “Got myself a sister 'bout her age—she's still lookin' fer her mark too. I bet they'd be like pea's in a pod.”

Rarity lit up. “Well, we may be more alike than I imagined, Ms. Apple.”

“Ya know? Ignorin' the dresses an' makeup an' that dumb smell-good stuf--”

“Perfume--”

“Whatever,” Jack dismissed with a brisk wave of her hand. “Like I said: take away those things, an', well, yeah. I agree with ya.”

Rarity seemed to be reminded of something. “Speaking of perfume...” She approached the farmer, extending her free wrist. “Smell the scent I'm using.”

Jack looked cautiously over the woman's wrist—years spent with her brother and his friends made the farmer reluctant to sniff anything offered to her. Bracing herself, she moved her face close and gave a small inhale. It smelled like apples after a hearty rainstorm, with a brief cinnamon finish.

“Yeah, alright. I'll admit: that one ain't so bad.”

“I thought you might be keen on it.” Rarity smiled, gesturing to one of the doors at the side of the lounge. “Now, go and get changed. I'll wait out here for you.”

Rarity moved to the front, opening the door and gesturing for Jack to go ahead. The blonde took a step outside, glancing down at her pricy attire and sighing.

It was a nice suit—Jack couldn't argue with that. And for being formal wear, it was fairly comfortable, save for a pressure at her waist. Rarity said it'd help give the farmer the illusion of a more pinched-in waist, but the Apple didn't really see it. Not to mention the weird feeling of having her hair braided and free from the normal, familiar weight of her hat. It hadn't been worn like that since her mom passed on.

Rarity moved to Jack's side and shut the door behind them. With a quick channel of her magic, the tailor locked the store's entrance behind them.

“Well,” Rarity said, looking at the last struggling beams of the red and orange sunset as they glazed over her property. “It's shaping to be a lovely evening.”

“Red at night, sailor's delight,” Jack answered. She took a step forward, stumbling a bit in the dress shoes Rarity had lent out. She was glad they weren't really high heels—Jack never had learned how to walk in those damn things.

"How 'bout we see if we can grab a carriage. My treat,” Jack offered, not wanting to risk stumbling any more than she already had. Walking around on an uneven road in these shoes was liable to kill her.

“Oh, you're so considerate! You don't want me to ruin my dress!” the tailor replied, smiling and staring up at Jack's green eyes.

“Uh... yeah... that's completely what I was goin' fer,” she awkwardly said, not meeting the other's gaze. If Rarity could read her obvious bluff, well, she at least didn't call Jack out on it.