The farmer and the tailor grabbed a carriage once they made it to the busy main street. Jack was disappointed that Hans wasn't the operator, but the driver was a pleasant enough young man who took Jack's bits with such an exuberant eagerness that would have been almost endearing, if Jack had more money to spend.

Jack decided to ride inside the carriage with Rarity tonight and, while she wasn't a woman who valued comfort as much as practical applications, she had to admit it was a nice break from the hard wooden bench she favored when riding with Hans. The plush red fabric seats took out a good chunk of the normally jolting ride and the weak evening sunlight filtering in through the slitted windows gave the small compartment a rather calming feel. She glanced over at Rarity, just barely catching the tailor turning her head quickly away from the farmer, a small amount of heat traveling along the tailor's cheeks.

“I do hope the play is good,” Rarity said.

“Book ain't too bad,” Jack easily replied, staring out the window. Though they'll probably ruin it with song numbers or somethin', she thought.

“I didn't take you for the reading kind.”

She shrugged. “I don't do it often, but I like ta crack open a book from time ta time.”

“You're a far cry from Isabelle, then,” Rarity huffed. “I don't believe I've ever seen her sit down and read anything for entertainment.”

The conversation dried up shortly afterward, leaving Rarity and Jack staring out their respective windows at the slowly passing landscape. It gave the farmer some time to think. Well, maybe not think.

Hope would be the better word.

She hoped the farm was doing ok, despite her absence. She hoped Bloom was keeping up on school. Most importantly, she hoped her Granny was having good days while Jack was gone—the matriarch seemed to have been sinking more and more into her own demented world, one far away from Jack and the rest of her family. It tore at the farmer every time she thought of it, but from a practical perspective, it wasn't like the Apples' could do much for their ailing grandmother, besides herbal remedies provided by one of their closest neighbors—the medicine woman, Zecora.

The African had proved herself countless times in Jack's eyes—she was a good woman that had quite a bit of expertise in potion-making and had even helped with some of the repairs and harvesting around the farm when they were desperate for hands. Mac thought the world of the dark skinned woman, though he wasn't the type to talk out his emotions.

“So, I believe that there will be a dance before the play. Would you like to be my partner?” Rarity suddenly asked, breaking Jack away from her thoughts.

“Well...” the farmer trailed off.

“Oh, come now, Jack. You look quite stylish. I'd love to show you off! It's not often I get to advertise my own designs on other people.” She smiled sweetly. “Well, people that are a far cry from my normal clientele, anyway.”

“Ya mean people that actually work a day in their lives?” Jack said dryly.

“I wouldn't call my clients 'blue collar' by any means, but some of them do work.” Her brow furrowed as she looked to the ceiling. “Occasionally.”

Isabelle sat at the far corner of the student council room. Her slouched body tipped forward as exhaustion crept over her body—it was all she could do to stop herself from sliding off the chair and smacking her face onto the files she had spread all across the table. She numbly went back to examining the handwritten files, breezing through several profiles of the soul-folk teachers that resided here. With a heavy grunt of irritation, she called out to the only other person in the room.

“Yo, Twila. Any luck?”

Twila continued to look hard at the two dimensional screen levitating in front of her, seemingly oblivious to Dash's words. With a concentrated flick of the dark skinned woman's hand, the magical screen shifted images, flying through a large collection of faces, names, and student ID numbers in an uncanny blur. Every file she skimmed over had a wealth of information on it, but what drew her attention was the small, almost inconsequential stamp at the bottom right.

Red, orange, yellow, green. Each note on their documentation seemed out of place on something as benign as a school dossier, but, for their purposes, it was the most important aspect of the entire damn paper.

Earlier, Isabelle had found Twila and told the soul-folk the truth about yesterday's scare. The genius finally got the chance to do something to help only an hour ago, using her magic to infiltrate a secured and guarded room where the student records were held. To a normal soul-folk, the locked, lead based door leading inside would have been impossible to sneak magic through.

Shame for them she was no ordinary soul-folk.

When you had magic as your talent, impossible was met with a roll of the eyes--nothing more, nothing less.

The violet-haired woman leaned back in her chair briefly and closed her eyes in thought.

Twila hid herself well in a janitorial closet a few rooms over from her target. She closed her eyes. Focused. Channeled her spirit into the aura of magic that surround her. She clenched her fist instinctively, bringing her aura to a point on her knuckle—a small dot of lavender the only clue she was using magic at all. She stumbled briefly, enveloped in the limbo between her body and her mind. With a quick press onto the ground, her spirit branched out, turning into into a small trickle-trail of magic. The woman's essence crept under the door and along the floor, wary of the guard nearby.

The guard had her feet propped on top of a table and a magazine resting in her hands, working diligently on a long necked bottle of lukewarm beer. Twila's essence, though lacking ears, could pick up the start of, “Paint it Black.”

Twila didn't fear the guard. The trail, her consciousness, was so insignificant and borderline transparent at the moment that only the well trained or alert could spot it. The woman didn't appear to be either.

The soul-folk's essence moved to the locked door and searched carefully along its edges. She found what she was looking for—a small crack between the doorframe and the floor. She wiggled through, a mouse entering a small home.

Twila hissed briefly when she accidentally guided her essence upward and touched the lead with her magic; the odd feeling of a numbing jolt tingled her hands and for a brief flicker, she could feel her consciousness returning to her body, being pulled away from the steps she had crawled across moments ago.

Then that flicker of doubt was gone, replaced by a stubborn determination. With a doubling of effort, she pressed on, mentally enduring and marching forward through the miniscule hole. Soon, she felt a sweet release of the door's pressure—Twila's magic had overpowered the lead-based resistances and was now inside a small office. She took stock of the area, and her essence began to quickly change shape. Twila felt her form alter from a needle-thin stream into a stretching mass of magic similar to a thin glob of viscous jelly smeared on a concrete sandwich. It expanded, turning into a small puddle of violet. From it, rising as if climbing a steep stairwell, came first a gelatinous head, then, moments later, a neck. Torso. Arms and legs. Finally, free from the puddle, stood a lavender gel in the shape of Twila.

Twila examined her doppelganger's bare body, running an appraising eye up and down her arms and legs. She nodded in approval—everything seemed in working order.

Worked like a charm, Twila thought. It wasn't often she had to create a doppelganger—usually an astral projection was a far more efficient way to use her powers, but considering she would need to physically interact with the objects around her, a spell from the illusion school just wouldn't work.

She frowned as a small dollop of her slimy shoulder slid down like sweat across her arm, and splattered to the ground. She needed to work fast, before this body collapsed in on itself.

The soul-folk stepped forward, her bare feet squelching on the concrete floor. Twila looked over the room, her eyes flowing over the desk and a small map of the school's floorplan, before finally settling on a large filing cabinet. She reached out, opening the cabinet's top drawer with a wet yank.

Inside would have been the jackpot, if she had been searching for money. A bag, nearly ruptured from all the bits inside, greeted her eyes. Twila figured it was part of the school's donations from some of the bigger businesses' owners. Between the Belle clan and Dorcis, the place was raking in cash.

Twila shut the drawer, moving on to greater things. She tried the second highest. This time, she lucked out. Inside was a book. She carefully used her magic to turn a page and was greeted with the beginning of an expansive list of the entire student roster—age, race, photograph, room location—it was all there and ready for her fingertips.

She looked down at her slimy hand. On second thought, she decided, magic would have to suffice.

Twila quickly levitated the book over to the desk and pointed. The book cracked open, and began to rapidly flip through its pages. The scholar could feel the information swimming in her magical essence, a mere gesture could bring it to light. When she returned to her true body, she'd be able to regurgitate the information her magic was absorbing into something cohesive enough to read and hopefully make sense of.

As she let her magic absorb the information, she took to making sure the room looked the same as when she came in—using her magic to deal with the jelly-like substance that peppered her footsteps and covered the drawer handles. Twila heard the book snap shut with a finality only a finished story provided as she cleaned up. With another quick gesture, she picked up the book with her magic, and placed it back into its normal location. She gave a quick nod of approval at the accomplished job, and finished the last of her cleaning up. Soon, the only thing left was the puddle of goo the doppelganger originated from. Twila waved her hand over it and watched it vanish underneath, as if it had never existed in the first place.

On seeing the room was clean, Twila formed another quick gesture, making her two ring fingers and thumbs into a large circle. She then blew into the center. The room seemed to briefly turn monochrome to her gelatinous eyes, then reverted to normal.

She doubted that they'd look over the room, doubted that they'd bring someone that could identify auras even more. But it never hurt to be safe. Better to cast a masking spell and not have it checked, then not cast one at all and risk detection.

With a muttered incantation and a snap of her fingers, the doppelganger she was housed in vanished into thin air. Twila felt the briefest moment of duality as her consciousness was torn between the vanished creature and her own physical body. In a heartbeat, she was back in her own body, drawing a deep breath of the stale air.

She rose, carrying a wealth of new information in her mind.

“Yo, Twi!” Dash loudly called once more across the room, irritation evident in the athlete's words. Twila snapped back to the task at hand.

“Sorry, Isabelle--”

“Don't call me that.” Dash frowned, shaking her head at the name. “Did you find anything yet, egghead?”

“I've whittled our potential suspect list down to a far more sizable pool.” Twila glanced at the magical screen still levitating prominently in front of her. “Thanks to being able to get a match on the aura saturating the rope, I've been able to narrow it down to thirty names.”

“Can't ever be just one or two, can it?” the athlete swore under her breath.

Twila shook her head. “Sorry, Dash. The aura was a light blue--”

“One of the most common colors, yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dash quickly answered, putting a finger to her temple. “Have you dug any deeper on those thirty? Previous clubs, arrival dates—something like that?”

Twila put her hand on the table and tapped a small notepad of a similar design to Dash's. She opened it and turned the book, handing it to Isabelle. “Going by attendance records for classes, we can reduce our pool by half—unless you still hold onto the notion that we cannot trust the word of the teachers.”

Dash mulled it over, skimming through the names with a thumb. “I don't think any of the teaches would lie about a student being in their class at the time. That's something pretty easy to confirm.”

Twila sat in contemplation for a moment as Isabelle looked over her quickly created list. She sighed, rubbing tiredly at her eyes. The magic was starting to throb at her temples—it was about time to shut it down for an hour or two. “There's a person within those fifteen I feel warrants an investigation into,” she reluctantly said, bridging her fingers underneath her chin.

Dash glanced up from the notes, waiting for Twila to continue.

“Alard von Blueblood.” After dropping the name, she paused. “He's a cousin to the Pendragon's and a potential candidate for the crown. I-it's possible he was jealous of the time I spent with Celestia. That would give him motive...”

“For the cherry on top, he was an old flame of Rarity's,” Dash continued, snapping the notebook shut and handing it back to Twila. She paced to the center of the room. “When you're part of my family, you're taught not to believe in coincidence, bro. Him being on that list and having a beef with both of you just puts the nail in the coffin.” Isabelle smirked. While she didn't have quite the dedication to do the duller aspects of detective work, she was like her uncle when it came to actually putting the pieces together and solving a puzzle like this—it gave her a feeling of accomplishment and euphoria only a runner's high could top. “Blueblood wanted to scare you two away, maybe damage the school's rep as insult to injury. It would have worked well, had he actually missed the blow; but that's the problem with domino plans like that—mess up one piece and it goes nowhere. It's bugging me on what he would have done next—it's not often you see someone with a loose gameplan like that.”

Twila nodded. “What do you recommend we do?”

The Ritter popped her knuckles, smirking. “Tonight we'll have ourselves a social call.”

The carriage pulled up by the school's fountain and started back towards St. Charles within moments of Jack and Rarity exiting. Not that they could blame the driver—the place was swamped with well dressed party goers spilling out from carriages and walking arm-and-arm down a plush red rug leading to the front entrance. Jack noticed a few stoic women adorned in the golden armor of Celestia's guard lining the walkway. They cast an appraising eye on everyone that walked towards the doors, keeping an eye out for troublemakers. It unnerved the farmer a bit—wasn't like she dealt with authority often.

“Last chance ta jus' go an' grab a bite ta eat instead,” Jack offered half in jest.

“Oh hush,” Rarity dismissed, closing her eyes and tilting her nose up. “I'm quite certain that this will be an enjoyable evening if you simply accept it.” She approached the velvet rug alongside the farmer, then, with surprising speed and deftness, she snaked her delicate arm around the brown-skinned woman's. Jack glanced down, then back up at Rarity.

“Ya weren't kiddin' bout that 'arm-in-arm' stuff, were ya?” the tall woman dryly asked, scratching at her cheek.

“A lady does not 'kid,' Jack. She jests,” Rarity corrected. As they continued walking the carpet, she lowered her voice slightly, leaning to the farmer's ear. “Do you not like it?”

“Like what?”

The violet-haired beauty wordlessly lifted up their entwined arms.

“Oh,” Jack realized. The blonde scratched at the tip of her nose—furrowing her brow suddenly when she realized how much she was touching her face—then shook her head. “I dunno—I mean, it's nice enough, I guess.”

The two soon entered the busy lobby. Jack gave a small tap on the other woman's shoulder and broke her hold. “I'll be back in a few. I really gotta pee.”

Rarity very nearly put her palm up to her face in exasperation. “I don't suppose you could have said you were powdering up, or you needed to step away for a minute?”

Jack blinked. “Heck no. I ain't touchin' no makeup ta my fac--”

“Never mind,” Rarity quickly said. “I'll just wait for you here.”

The farmer wandered off. Rarity sighed, moving to one of the large windows that lined the wall. Over on the other side, a woman on piano slowly played the opening of a slow blues song the tailor was familiar with; “The Heart of Damocles.”

Rarity heard a presence walk close to her; she glanced to her side expecting Jack.

It was Isabelle, dressed less like a party goer and more like an ancient Greek goddess, with long white robes and golden trim at the waist and hem.

“Why, good evening, darling. How do you like the dress?” Rarity questioned.

Dash gave a quick glance over herself, from the golden circlet at her temples to her brown sandals. “I'll give you cred: it's pretty nice. Still too girly, but at least it's pretty cool.” She rolled her neck. “Then again, it might just be cool because I'm in it.” The athlete moved towards the window as Rarity scoffed. The two stared out towards the stars. “Not too bad of a night.”

“Indeed. It is a magnificent one.” Rarity smiled.

They stood in a companionable silence for a moment, before Isabelle spoke again. “So, I saw who you came in with,” she said, smirking. “Never thought you'd shoot for the naive country girl—you were always more of a high-class broad.”

Rarity felt like the conversation had turned into a minefield. “Do not call me a broad, you imbecile. As for my type... I will admit, Jack is a far cry from the people I usually mingle with. Yet she's intriguing enough that I wanted a chance to get to know her, especially after she expressed an interest in me.”

That got Dash's attention. “Really? Less than a week in and she's already hitting on people? I'm impressed.”

“It wasn't something so unseemly as hitting on me, Isabelle. She sent me a token of her affection.”

“I did what now?” a familiar drawl curiously chimed in. Jack moved carefully in her heels towards Isabelle and Rarity. She raised her eyebrow.

Rarity coyly smiled. “No need to hide the truth, darling. I thought it was a fabulous gift—especially considering how expensive I'm sure it was.”

“What, the lemon bars?” She scratched behind her ear. “Rare, those cost me like two bits.”

“Including a zapapple topping? I doubt it,” Rarity stated. “A pan of lemon bars from Sugar Cube Corner runs at least eight bits.”

“I shoulda guessed Pinkie was givin' me some kinda deal...” She took in a breath. “Look, I got those ta make up fer me bein' an ass ta ya at breakfast the other day—ain't nothin' more than that.”

“Oh,” Rarity simply said. After a beat, she swallowed. “I mistook your actions, Jack. For that, I apologize. Please forgive my... earlier mannerisms. I thought you had simply taken an interest to me.”

“That's not--”

Before Jack could say anything more, Rarity took a brisk step towards the grand stairwell at the far end of the room. She stole one more glance out the large windows. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I shall head to the auditorium. My offer still stands regarding the theater box, Jack. One misunderstanding shouldn't ruin a new friendship, after all, and I did promise you a fantastic seat for the play.”

Jack watched Rarity leave. After a beat, she made a motion to follow the violet haired beauty, but was promptly stopped by Dash's hand on her arm.

“Real talk, bro?” Isabelle asked, meeting the tall girl's gaze.

“What?”

“You're not some kinda... you know... floozy or player or something, right? 'Cause I know the tricks, pretending you're hot for her one moment, then cold the next, and--”

The farmer leaned forward, coming close to the others face. “Dash,” she growled in warning.

Isabelle shook her head, putting her hands up defensively. Though she couldn't help the small smirk that popped up from the corner of her lip. “Look, I'm only asking because it's her, alright? She's had a few snobs do her wrong in the past. I'm keeping an eye out.”

“A shepherd tending to their flock,” Jack dryly answered, still in a sour mood about Isabelle's question. Her family never had wandering eyes, and Jack would be damned if she would.

“That's worded a bit different than what I'd say, but sure.” She scratched at her neck and stepped to the side. “If you're thinking abou—”

“I ain't thinkin' bout nothin' right now, Dash. I'd like ta jus' get ta know her better first. If she had jus' listened ta me a damn second ago instead of takin' off...”

The girl smirked, running a hand through her multi-hued bangs. “If you end up, you know, going after her, well, she could do worse.” Her expression fell. “But that's not all I needed to say to you, hayseed. We might have found the guy responsible for last night's scare. I wanted to see if you were game on joining me and Twila later on.”

Jack quickly nodded. “I wanna find the guy jus' as much as you, I reckon.”

“That's what I expected of you, bro.” Isabelle smiled. She tapped the farmer's shoulder with her fist. “Meet me and the bookworm in our dorm after the play and whatev. I'll let you chase after the dame now.”

“Glad I got yer permission,” the farmer grunted, heading towards the stairwell.

Rarity sighed, standing near the wall of the theater. The woman didn't know why she had decided to stay on the floor without a partner—it was an exercise in frustration. She was being bombarded by offers to dance, but right now she didn't have the heart to join any of the bachelors or bachelorettes seeking her favor.

I was so naive, she brooded, watching the swaying crowd make their way through a violin piece.

It really had seemed too good to be true, in retrospect. A stranger shows up and not only grants a token of her affection, but saves Rarity's life all within the same week? It was ridiculous.

It was even more ridiculous that Rarity was so intrigued by Jack. They had only known one another for a few days now—far too short to develop any sort of real attachment, romantic or otherwise.

But, still...

The flower might not be in bloom, but I think the seeds were at least planted, Rarity heard in her mother's, sweet, kindly voice.

She frowned at the words, hating how close to true they were.

“There ya are,” she heard a familiar drawl say. Rarity pushed her thoughts to the side and did her best to smile through the hurt.

“Jack.” She nodded politely, watching the girl move and lean against the theater wall. Rarity mentally screamed at the thought of Jack's suit and the grime that might be on it now. “The play's not for another hour.”

“I ain't dumb. I know it's not time fer it. I, uh.” She cocked her head towards the crowd. “I jus' wanted ta see if you were up fer a dance.”

Rarity narrowed her gaze at the farmer. “So, let me understand this: you tell me mere moments ago that you had no interest in me. Now you're asking for a dance?” She scowled. “That is far from proper manners, Ms. Apple.”

The farmer sighed. “When ya put it that way, it makes me sound like an ass.” She briefly put a finger to her temple. “Look, Rare, honest. I ain't tryin' ta yank yer chain left an' right. I'm jus' makin' sure we're straight regardin' one another.”

“Straight?” Rarity repeated, tilting her head at Jack's choice of words.

“Yeah. Straight. Like on the level.” she thought briefly. “When I first met ya, I thought that you were the very definition of a pampered pain in the ass.” Rarity's fists balled up; Jack quickly rushed to finish. “But then I had a chance ta talk with ya an' I realized that under the makeup an' dress was a sweet woman that could take a joke, ya know?” The farmer crossed her arms. “I don't want ya ta make the same mistake I did, judgin' a book 'fore ya know 'bout it. I ain't no Princess Charmin'. I don't do lil' romantic gifts or gestures—hell, I ain't got a damn clue on how ta really do dates an' the like.” The earthern-skinned woman breathed out, stressed at having to actually talk out her thoughts on the matter. “If yer interested in me, I want it ta be fer me, not someone ya think I am, ya know? I want us both ta have clean slates on the matter. I don't see you as a spoiled brat, an' you don't see me as a white knight.” After she said her peace, she scowled. “Damn it. I probably done hosed that up. Sorry, Rare. I ain't never been good with words.”

The beauty smiled at Jack. “I can forgive you, Jack. I think I understand where you're coming from regarding how I've treated you. If you wish, I'm more than happy to drop the flirtatious acts and hand-holding.”

“I... I don't mind the flirtin',” Jack quickly replied, scratching at her cheek. “It's, uh, nice ta get a compliment every now an' again.”

Rarity held back a laugh at watching the farmer stammer. There was something quite enjoyable indeed about reducing Jack to an unsure pile of nerves.

The two stood silently for a moment, before Rarity coyly smiled. “Well, Jack. I do believe you were offering me the opportunity to dance...” she encouraged, holding out her arm.

“Hang on a sec.” The woman kicked off her dress shoes and put them to the side. Rarity glanced down distastefully at Jack's bare feet. Before she could voice her complaint, the farmer took Rarity's hand and walked out onto the floor just as the music increased in tempo. Jack rested one hand on the small of Rarity's back, and the other held out to the side. They began moving in synchronicity, floating, turning, and swaying across the ballroom.

“Viennese Waltz,” Rarity marveled as Jack dipped her.

“I thought ya might like it more than the Foxtrot, an' the music ain't exactly good fer the Mambo,” the farmer easily said, bringing Rarity back up and quickly moving back to the brisk turning motion.

“Where did you learn to dance like this?”

Jack wryly smiled, giving the violet-haired beauty another dip. “Spent a year an' a half in Manhattan with my Aunt an' Uncle. Dancin' was 'bout the only thing I did regularly—got pretty good at leadin' an' followin', if ya ask me.”

Rarity's face glowed. “Fascinating. What was the gem of Caballo like?”

The blonde seemed hesitant to answer; she brought Rarity in close and began to spin once more. “Place wasn't no gem, Rare,” she adamantly said.

“I just can't understand that, Jack. I've always heard glowing recommendations to visit it. Why, in one of my fashion magazines, it says that Manhattan's the love capital of the world!”

“If by love, ya mean brothels on every corner fer the poor folk an' two wives on each arm fer the rich, I'd agree,” Jack dryly said.

“My, you really didn't like the place.”

“Ya think?” The farmer scowled, moving aggressively across the floor. Rarity held on, being careful not to suffer whiplash.

“Why did you remain there for so long if you despised it that much?”

The southerner glanced to the ground. “I hated the farm jus' as bad fer a bit there,” Jack admitted.

“Hmm?” Rarity blinked. “Really? From the way you held yourself, I presumed that you were quite proud of your roots.”

“'Course I am!” Jack argued. The song finished. Everyone dancing paused, taking a bow amid a clapping audience. A slower tune began—the farmer brought the tailor in closer, transitioning her stepping pattern into an English Waltz. She began to speak again once the two regained their correct tempo. “I jus' couldn't look at the place without cringing when I was younger.”

“Did something happen, or...?” Rarity trailed off, suddenly looking askance. “I'm sorry, darling. I'm sure you don't want to talk about it.”

“It was years ago--'fore I even got my Mark. Time heals wounds on yer body an' yer mind, ya know? It really ain't too much of a sore subject no more.” She threw out her leading arm; Rarity followed it with her body, spinning briefly on one foot before being pulled back into Jack's grip. “Lost my Ma and Pa when I was a young'in. Farm felt pretty empty after that.” She thought briefly, staring deep into Rarity's azure eyes. “I left fer a bit. Had ta get away from the hurt. So I traveled. Eventually, the road took me ta Manhattan.” Jack gave Rarity another tilt, holding the woman safe as the tailor arched her back and her violet hair swam in poetic motion. The farmer smiled slightly at the sight. Rarity seemed to be made for dancing. “Guess the rest tells itself, huh?”

“Mmm, I suppose it does, judging by your behavior and accent. However, the fact you forgot how to speak like a proper woman after being exposed to high society for a year astounds me.”

“It's jus' like ridin' a bike, Rare.” Jack briefly shifted her pose, tilting her nose up and gazing to the distance at an object only she could see. “For, you see, it is a talent one can easily show to others, if the need arises, my dear,” she said in the regal, near perfect dialect of Camelot's rich. Rarity stumbled briefly, caught off balance by Jack's cultured, reserved tone. The farmer snorted and promptly gave up her stance, seeming to revert back to the easygoing country girl in a matter of seconds.

“S-so the southern accent is fake? You can speak like a normal person?” Rarity questioned. Jack glared daggers at the woman she held in her arms. “You know what I meant,” the violet-haired woman said.

The two danced, each lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Jack broke the silence that had cast a spell on the two. “Accent ain't fake,” Jack dismissed. “All that fancy stuff is. I came from the country—my country. If I talked fancy, wore fancy clothes, ate fancy food? I'd jus' be lyin' ta myself. Like I said, Rare, I am who I am. Ain't got no need or want ta change myself.”

Amid the other dancers, each was lost to the other as the band played on.

The dance event ended soon after. Jack and Rarity waded through the crowds and retired to the Belle's private booth overlooking the stage. The farmer stared down at the floor, her thoughts briefly returning to Rarity nearly splitting her skull open on the wood. As she looked over the still dissipating crowd of people, she noticed the staff carrying in dozens of tables.

“Wonder what's goin' on there?” Jack pondered.

“Guests of honor. Namely supporters for the school, board directors, and the principal.”

“Princesses gonna be down there tonight?”

“Actually, they're already seated at a box like ours.” Rarity gestured, pointing towards a seating area on the opposite side of the room from the stage. In it were two regal and, frankly, imposing figures.

One was a beautiful woman with a motherly build, adorned in plate armor of the finest silvers. On her shoulder was a lengthy piece of white cloth, boldly showcasing Caballo's national symbol of prosperity—a blazing orange sun. Resting at her side was a rapier with a humble brass finish. It seemed almost out of place on the heavily tanned Princess. She ran a hand through her multicolored, billowing hair, and smiled politely at the workers below her.

Sitting next to the Princess of the day was what seemed to be her polar opposite. It was a woman about ten years younger than the Daywalker, with pale skin that reminded Jack of ice. She wore dark, violet armor and sat in a regal, militaristic posture. She held the shaft of a spear carefully in one hand and tapped her finger against the pommel of a short sword at her side. Her cyan eyes flickered in in out of sight, as her night colored hair floated in an unfelt breeze.

“Celestia and Luna in the flesh. I'll be damned if I ever thought I'd see 'em in person,” Jack said.

Rarity glanced at the farmer. “I forget you haven't been around much, Jack. Celestia visits Twila on occasion here. She really is quite the lady, even if she does mask it under armor and blade.”

“Excalibur...” Jack marveled. “A divine sword only the rightful heir to Arthur Pendragon's throne is said to be able to unsheathe.”

“It's just a sword, darling,” Rarity retorted.

“Probably,” the tanned woman agreed, hoisting her legs up on the boxes safety rail. “But it's still a nifty thing, ya know? Same as Luna's spear. That, uh, Ron-somethin'?”

“Rhongomyniad,” Rarity easily answered, glancing over her nails.

“... The hell kinda name is that? Yeah. Ron-somethin'.”

The violet-haired woman rolled her eyes. Before she could retort, the lights dimmed and the elderly figure of Hans stepped onto stage.

“Good evening,” he addressed the audience. “Tonight's presentation will be in honor of Lady Luna Pendragon, home after a long and tiring crusade into the untamed northlands. I would like a round of applause for the two living legends gracing us with their presence.”

The auditorium thundered with clapping; Luna still held her posture, but there was obvious heat flooding her face thanks to the attention.

“Lady Pendragon, you have always done well to remember Uther and Arthur in your actions, as has your sister,” Hans complemented. “I can only hope that the show we're going to put on tonight shows at least a fraction of our appreciation.” He glanced easily at the crowd, scratching at his dark and lined face. “As for the rest of you, don't worry. We'll get you all some food served up soon.” He gestured behind him, towards the curtain. “With that, I present to you The Count of Monte Cristo.”

Dmitri ate at his table as he raptly watched the play. He cut into his steak and dabbed at the juices leaking out of the meat with a roll.

“Quite a show they're putting on,” he said to the large, imposing man in a suit standing near him.

“If you say so, Mr. Dorcis,” he dismissively replied. He ran a hand over the large and garish burn mark on his cheek as he kept an eye out for any trouble. After a beat, he sniffed loudly and scrunched his nose.

“Hitting your goods is more trouble than it's worth, Dorado,” Dmitri cheerfully advised, cutting once more into his steak. The muscle-bound man was not amused—he briefly gave thought to yanking the other's silvery-gray goatee right off his stupid face.

Instead he crossed his arms behind his back and replied, “I'll keep that in mind, Mr. Dorcis.”

“Good.” The older of the two reached over and took a sip of his wine. “It would be quite a shame to lose you. Especially considering what may happen to my young associate tonight.”

“Blueblood not living up to expectations?”

“He's late. That wouldn't happen if he hadn't made a mistake somewhere along the line,” Dorcis reasoned with a sigh. “Shame, too. I had hoped that he could be counted on. Oh well, plenty of fish, Elton.”

Dorado nodded, inwardly scowling at Dorcis's use of his first name. “Shall I get a list of candidates composed?”

Dmitri was about to sound off his agreement, when he saw Blueblood trying his best to sneak around the other tables. “Mmm. Wait for a moment. I'm curious what he has to say first.”

Alaurd arrived at the table to see Dorcis finishing up the last of his steak and his hired muscle regarding Blueblood with a stare normally reserved for annoying insects.

“Good evening, Mr. Blueblood. I trust you are well?” Dorcis asked.

“Q-quite.” Alaurd nodded. “Yourself?”

“Fine. Save for the fact that they're still sitting smugly where I should be,” he huffed like a child, giving a nod towards the Princesses and their box seat.

“They shouldn't be in there, they should be ground level too,” Blueblood promptly agreed, nodding his head so briskly that it might snap. “Why--”

“Not that seat, whelp,” Dorcis argued, glancing towards the young man. “I mean the seat of Caballo's power.” He thrust a thumb towards his chest with his free hand. “Me. I deserve it far more than they do. With what I have coursing through my veins, I--” he cut himself off, realizing his grip on his drinking glass had created a small network of hairline cracks all along the object. He took a breath and forced himself to speak in a chipper tone once more. “But enough of them,” he said with disgust. “After all, we're working to resolve that problem, one small step at a time. Rather, let's turn the conversation to you. You're late with your report. I was afraid something had happened,” Dorcis said, his smile cold. Calculating.

“No. N-nothing's happened,” Alaurd lied, already beginning to sweat. This wasn't going to plan at all.

“Come on now. Do you really think I'd believe that?” The middle-aged man said, casually playing with his steak knife. “You've never been late telling me anything, especially simple updates. Something has clearly happened, Mr. Blueblood. Would you be so kind as to say what?”

He clenched his eyes shut. “I-I made a miscalculation. Nothing mor--”

Dmitri leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “What sort of... 'miscalculation,' Mr. Blueblood?”

“I-I just meant to give her a scare, like you mentioned, Mr. Dorcis. I didn't mean for someone to nearly get hurt, honest,” Alaurd blubbered, slightly cowering under Dmitri's unchanging gaze.

The man adjusted his tie and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “You know I hate mistakes almost as much as I hate your pathetic groveling. I specifically said not to harm her. How can you fail such an easy concept?” Dorcis sighed, leaning back in his chair.

“G-give me another chance, sir. I can do this.”

“I don't know. How would I be certain that you wouldn't ruin my fun again?”

“I'll do anything! Please!”

Dorcis stroked his goatee. After a beat, he beckoned Dorado over. The scarred man moved in close—Dorcis whispered something into his ear. The other raised his brow, interested.

“If that's what you wanna do,” the bodyguard said.

“Good!” Dimitri clasped his hands together. “Ok, Blueblood, let's make a game of it—after all, what's the point if you can't have a bit of fun now and again?”

“A... game?” Alaurd slowly said.

“Of course.” Dmitri earnestly nodded. “A game. If you win, you get to stay in my good graces, and I'll give you that second chance you so desperately want.”

Blueblood took in a shaky breath. At least now he stood a chance. “W-what if I lose?”

The other's smile evaporated. He gazed hard at the young man. “The same thing that happens to everyone that stops entertaining me.”

“I'll do it,” Alaurd instantly replied. “Whatever you want.”

Dorcis's toothy smile quickly returned. “Good, good, good. I knew you'd take the chance. Mr. Dorado will show you what you need to do.”

“Y-yes sir.” Alaurd instantly rose as the guard walked towards him. “I won't forget your kindness.”

“You won't forget much of anything tonight, I believe.” Dorcis cracked a half-smile as the two walked away from the table. Without missing a beat, he returned his attention back to the play.

Author's Notes:

Hi there. Next chapter should be coming out shortly. It's a bit of an intermission piece--not necessary for the overall plot, but it does offer a bit of character interaction and the like. If that sounds good, feel free to go to the next chapter. If not? No worries, go to the chapter afterwords.