The Sweetest Music

Chapter Eighteen

Come Rain or Come Shine

***

"I don't believe it."

Lyra took a puff on the cigarette, sipping the late morning coffee. The house seemed alien to her. Without her mother, it was not home any more: it just didn't feel like home. But, at least, she had Bon-Bon.

The cream-coloured mare just put a comforting hoof on her mare's shoulder, giving her an encouraging peck on the cheek. "I can't believe it either, honey." She looked at the clock adorning the wall of the dining room. "But... I'm really afraid that it seems to be true. Listen. That lawyer should be coming in five minutes. We will demand more concrete proof."

"He has concrete proof," Lyra retorted. "Proof that this ring is hers. My mom's magic is all over it. I can feel it. It's a wedding ring, Bonnie," she explained. "It's very special magic." The lyrist sighed. "But what if he just stole the ring? Where's my mom, then? Has she been abducted?"

"Honey." Bon-Bon placed her hoof on her mare's. "Listen. If you're right, then talking to him about that won't help. If he's a criminal, telling him your suspicions won't do any good. Let's just listen to what he has to say." She smiled reassuringly. "You're good with papers. If it's just common documentation needed to come into inheritance, just sign them and get them off your mind."

Lyra sighed. "Bonnie. If my mom's alive, how can I possibly come into inheritance?" Not that I want to.

"Well, the papers just won't be valid then and Discreet Heart will be punished." I hope, the confectioner added mentally.

"All right," Lyra agreed, a little reluctantly. "But what do we do after he leaves? How do we know if he's speaking the truth or if he's a criminal?" I know, Bonnie. Don't say it aloud.

"Lyra, I think..." Yes, it's hard. But it's the only way, Lyra, Bon-Bon said in her mind, sending the message via the look she gave her mare. We both dislike the police. But...

The doorbell rang, its soft chime a peculiar contrast to the bell they'd installed at home - at Bon-Bon's. "I think we need to get the door." With that, Lyra stood up, walking out of the room, her nose brushing against Bon-Bon's shoulder for a second. The cream-coloured mare sighed and relaxed a little. They'd continue the talk in private after the inheritance matter had been solved.

The lawyer - now Lyra's lawyer, as it seemed; she still couldn't accept... What was there to accept anyway? Nothing had been proved! - entered the dining room disturbingly on time. Lyra had been hoping he would come - just a little. Or was it the other way round?

"Good day, Miss Heartstrings!" he greeted the mint mare, sitting at the improvised meeting table: basically, the dining table devoid of utensils and tablecloth. "I don't intend to waste your precious time, so how about we get down to business at once?" I really wanna strangle him, Lyra observed with strange calmness. As in, reeeeally. Bon-Bon could hide the body - or at least help me hide the body... Lyra stopped such thoughts: maybe the presence of the lawyer reminded her that non-punishable thoughts led to punishable intentions. If you intended to kill somepony - you were already subject to prosecution; thoughts were unpunishable - or weren't they? Actions were. Intentions were. Damn, my thoughts are getting ridiculous. While Lyra might not want to admit it to herself, she was really concerned about her situation, hence the even more swiftly-changing thoughts, even they be true.

Bon-Bon briefly considered offering Discreet Heart tea or coffee, but immediately decided against it, especially given Lyra's attitude. Besides, the lawyer had already extracted some papers from his saddlebags, placing them on the table.

"You see, according to your mother's will, you are the only heir, with the right to-" the stallion began, but Lyra didn't listen. She remembered her pact with Bon-Bon and did not fall to accusations. Otherwise, she really didn't have to pay attention: she wasn't interested in inheritance. For, her mother really had to be dead for her daughter to come into inheritance. And she wasn't.

Right?

Instead, her attention resurfaced to what Bon-Bon had suggested - had almost suggested: she was quite sure about that. See the police: that's what her mare was going to suggest, wasn't it? But it was out of question. Her gaze briefly fell on the paper that the lawyer had brought with himself and had laid on the table - intentionally? The big news about the terrorist attacks was, of course, occupying most of the front page; but what commanded Lyra's attention - maybe she just didn't want to pay attention to the incident that may or may not have involved her mom? - was the current events section, one note standing out: a mass meeting of gay activists in Manehattan was 'dealt with', with the police - as usual - showing 'professionalism and dedication'. The article boasted that the police had protected the participants from the society's wrath by isolating them. In a way, it was correct: if the protesters hadn't been taken by the police (and probably beaten up in process), they would have been beaten up by ponies around them. In a way, this was protection: the morals - which generally stood against same-sex attraction - were, as it seemed, even more dangerous that the law. But then again - if they weren't the same thing - political oppression was based on social oppresion, wasn't it? Lyra was pretty sure it was - at least in most situations.

"Now, if you'll just sign here, and here," the stallion said pointedly, tapping the papers in the respective areas, obviously wrapping up the talk.

Lyra stared at the documents for a moment, then nodded. "I'll take that into consideration. I'm not signing them now."

For a moment, she could see despaired irritation on Discreet Heart's face. "Miss Heartstrings, what is there to consider? I have drafted all the papers, here they are. You just sign them, inherit a fortune, and I get my payment. It's easy as that."

Of course you'll get your payment. Lyra couldn't be disgusted - feel disgusted - by the lawyer. It was his job, after all. Yes, and also his job to report gay ponies to the police. She picked up a few dozen bits and put them into one of the brown pouches lying on the cupboard. "Here's your payment for drafting the papers. Again, I'll look through them, on my own," she emphasised. "I'll drop by your office in a few days," she lied. Or maybe she would? But then again, she'd have to find out the truth. If the truth could ever be found out - entirely; or at all.

The lawyer glanced at Lyra estimatingly - the kind of ill-concealed estimation that ponies of the lower standing gave to those of higher standing. Some found it slimy. Some found it flattering. Some found it disgusting and irritating. Lyra didn't care.

The stallion took the pouch and scribbled down an address on one of his business cards. Now I just might start collecting those, Lyra chuckled internally. "Thank you, Miss Heartstrings. Please drop by as soon as you are ready to come into your inheritance."

With that, he bowed a little and headed to the door, Bon-Bon following him to see him out. Lyra thought that it would suit him to wear a hat. Then, he could tap it before departing. The mint mare sighed and levitated a bottle out of the wine cabinet, pouring herself a glass. The whisky didn't kick in at once, and Lyra had to take another gulp to feel the touchy, pleasant burn in her stomach. And now I may be becoming an alcoholic. Lyra lit up a cigarette. Just like my father.

Bon-Bon entered the room and placed herself on the chair with a sigh. She cast a glance at her lover. "Lyra, it's not even one in the afternoon."

The mint mare sighed and downed the glass in silence. She placed the bottle back into the cabinet.

"Lyra, honey," Bon-Bon began again, as if the whole lawyer's visit never happened. It so never happened. "I know this sounds hard, but if we want to find out what really happened..."  To your mother, she added mentally. "We need to go to the police station. They have the information, and you have the right to get it." She looked at her mare pleadingly and understandingly. "Just there and away. It won't take long."

Lyra looked at the clock. It was quarter to one. Had it been forty-five minutes since noon? Forty-six now. Time flies. She had the right for the information, and the police had it. Who could claim it was correct, though? Who could say for sure if it was true?

She didn't need a visit to the police station. She didn't want a visit to the police station, for reasons obvious. Her thoughts shifted to the police pegasi she'd met. Even though they seemed similar - they were similar - there were some tiny differences in their behaviour. In a way, it was so ironic that most police ponies were pegasi: according to rumours - the kind of rumours that floated around, with no ground beneath to support them; yet they were mostly true - pegasi were one of the most open-minded ponies; at least Cloudsdayle pegasi. Many of them were gay - and while they didn't show it, not to be put against the law, they could act a little more freely. Being gay prohibited them from serving in the army, and the government needed them to serve: this is why no charges of homosexuality were ever pressed against them: officialy they were all straight and ready to serve in the army. Lyra didn't know if this coin was two-sided or more; or something else. After all, while prison didn't seem like an appealing opportunity, the conditions in the army weren't much better, if any better (rumours, again; those true, anonymous, faceless rumours): and, after the abuse and the near-impossible training, pegasi came out rough, steeled, different. The openness was closed. (Would it ever reopen again? Could it ever reopen - or be reopened - again? Lyra wasn't sure.) Sent to different cities around Equestria, they served the law. And the law was directed against filly-foolers; and thus, she was on a different side of the river than the police. Even if they didn't know - didn't need to know.

Just as her mind jumped on to comparing social and political oppression in Cloudsdayle and in Canterlot - and in Ponyville - and the rest of Equestria - a thought hit her. Maybe it was the whisky that reminded her of her mother's - or, to be more exact, her father's - acquaintance; maybe it was her subconscious - but did that really matter?

The police weren't the only ponies who possessed information. In fact, there were ponies possessing more information than the police - in addition to being honest and trustworthy, or, at least, relatively honest and trustworthy - as opposed to police ponies. Memories of foalhood swished through Lyra's mind and an image of a stallion - just a few visits - was firmly there, with the precious knowledge.

"Bon-Bon." The cream-coloured ears perked up at the mentioning of their owner's full name by the minty mare. "We won't go to the police station." Before Bon-Bon could speak out, Lyra carried on, "Bonnie. Please. I know I'm probably asking too much from you, but do you trust me enough to just agree with me on what I'm going to say next? Regardless of what I say?" Should've said 'love', not 'trust'.

Bon-Bon seemed to understand. "I love you enough - so much that if you tell me we have to kill somepony, I'll just get a knife and a sack." The confectioner smiled a little, still terrified that there was truth to her words. (Lyra was pretty much terrified - but strangely not disturbed - by that too.) "Just speak out. Tell me."

Lyra nodded, reiterating, "We won't go to the police station. But I know a pony - he lives in Chicoltgo - who has information - and who can help."  The cigarette made its way to the ashtray. Bon-Bon kept looking at her mare, waiting. Lyra knew that she would agree to anything - but was this step worth taking? Yes. Because he can help us. Or was it help her, Lyra? But then again...

"So, who's this pony of yours?" Bon-Bon interrupted Lyra's flow of thoughts. "Not that it matters." She smiled a little. "You know I'm always with you. I'll always be with you, come rain or come shine."

Lyra couldn't help but peck the mare on the lips, hugging her. After all, they were in the relative safety of home. Not their home - but still home. In a way. Releasing her mare from the embrace, Lyra sat back in the chair. "He..." Lyra paused. No secrets from Bonnie. "He's head of one of the marefia gangs." She waited for Bon-Bon to gasp, but the mare just placed her cream-coloured hoof on hers comfotingly, nodding in agreement - or, at least, acceptance. Come rain or come shine.

"His name is Alexandro Philarmonico."