The Sweetest Music

Chapter Three

I'm Old Fashioned

***

The sky was lighting up an early white as Lyra walked away from the bar, a cigarette hanging from her mouth. Finally, the snowstorm had ceased and the air was fresh and had this wonderful winter bite that hits the insides of your nostrils when you breathe it. Lyra gulped it down greedily. It seemed that even winter itself, the famous Canterlot winter, with its serene beauty, had now become a Manehattan winter: wet, and grimy, but ever so appealing, with a beauty much more appealing that the clean stateliness of classical Canterlot winter.

In a way, it was nice when the snowstorm took over from time to time, especially at night, with the snowflakes dancing in the illumination, and the frost biting at your nose and lungs, and the wet puddles of melting snow under your hooves. And the air spoke of something otherworldly, of that mild, spur-of-the-moment transcendence that shows you glimpses of places you've never been to, but know better than your own hooves, places that scream home from a distance, places that show up but never lure you, claiming that you've already spent your quality time there.

Lyra took another gulp of sobering air and stopped to light up another cigarette. Chain smoking will do you bad etc etc, she remembered her mother's warning with a sour sigh. Because, apparently, I can just stop anytime I want. She took a step forth when a loud crash from behind her made her freeze dead in her tracks.

"Dead" was a right choice of wording, the mare suddenly realised as she turned round, only to see shattered remains of a beer bottle. For a moment, she stood there, eyeing the shards dumbly. If she hadn't taken that little step... Lyra tossed the cigarette away and stomped on it.

She walked on. The near-death experience seemed to have cleared her mind of the usual winter grimness and the remains of the late-autumn post-depression, if only for a moment. Though, everypony was under the risk of dying almost all the time, statistically speaking. However, Lyra's mind couldn't - or didn't want to - think about statistics; it could only picture an alternate-universe Lyra, hit on the head with the bottle, dying of blood loss or a severe concussion.

Maybe she was overthinking it; but then again, it gave her something to focus on. Lyra watched the ashes dance in the wind, swirling, swinging without mercy. She was afraid of dreaming up dreams of death and adversity: do they come true or not? Hadn't she once, just once, had a vision of herself getting crushed by something falling from above? She could never get rid of that piece of unreal mysticism in the life of doubtless materialism.

A claxon shriek commanded Lyra's attention as she turned the corner and stepped onto the street. Right opposite the Ritz with its boastful light and pride, a cab was parked, waiting for somepony. And Lyra knew exactly who it was waiting for, as she directed her hooves towards the vehicle.

"Hi, mom," Lyra said with a sigh as she sat next to a dark green mare who rested regally upon one of the cab's cushions, her slightly lighter-coloured mane curled up perfectly around her horn, her general outlook similar to Lyra's, only neater, more regal, more prim and proper.

"Hello, sweetie," the older mare cooed, hugging her daughter and planting a warm peck on her cheek. "Been up all night, have you?"

Lyra groaned mentally. She did love her mother - more than anypony, more than anything in the world - but she just couldn't stand the everpresent overprotectiveness. They had talked about it, granted, but... But it had only made her mother sad, and more distant; it didn't actually fix the issue. And Lyra didn't even want to think about making her mother sad. So she played along.

This play-along didn't add to the discreetness of the situation, if only because there seemed to be no discreetness any more. There was love, sure, but... No buts. Lyra didn't want to think about it. It was already hard to keep her sanity without such thoughts. And sanity is a full-time job.

"Mom, you shouldn't have." Lyra smiled at the mare warmly, almost indulgently - and a touch apologetically. "I could've got home on my own just fine." She got more comfortable, squishing in the cushion as the cab began to move.

"Nonsense, sweetie." The gorgeous mare waved her hoof in the air. "It is far better to ride than to walk."

Lyra sighed inaudibly. Their verbal exchange always consisted of banal formalities: how-was-the-dinner, what-do-you-want-to-buy, how-was-your-day-at-work, good-night, good-morning, try-not-to-be-late etc etc. But what could she, Lyra Heartstrings, do, if she was the reason behind such alienation? If she just couldn't bear infringement upon her private life - not that there was any, for her - and anything that her mother said came off as such infringement.

She had never been rebellious as a teenager; she wasn't, still, as far as she could tell. However, there was this sullen itch inside her mind - and heart - that told her to get a flat of her own, get a mare, for hellsake, get moving!

Lyra gritted her teeth slightly, all thoughts vanishing, if only for a moment. "Thanks, mom." She smiled. To tell the truth, she really was thankful for the ride: she was exhausted. For a moment, she considered skipping work. Hmm... I've already taken an early leave this week... Or was it two? Hell, who works on Saturdays anyway?! "I think I'll get a scarf and head straight to work," she said, despite - or maybe in spite of? - herself. She tapped her neck with a hoof. "Lost mine on the way."

"We should buy you a new one, sweetie," the older mare insisted with that mild insisteveness that only mothers can have.

"Yes, sure," Lyra agreed readily. She knew she wouldn't buy a new scarf. She knew her mother knew. Despite their being exceptionally well-to-do - or maybe in spite of it - she didn't want to spend family money. There was her money; and there was family money. Taking family money was an unpleasant necessity sometimes, despite her mother's assurance that she, Lyra, was welcome to spend it. To her mind, though? It worked just the other way round. Sharing her personal money with family was all right, it was natural; taking family money, though? A no-no, to be avoided at all costs if possible.

To think about it, what was her family, after all? Sure, she had a grandfather, and a grandmother, and she was pretty sure there were a lot of cousins, and uncles, and aunts, but... Her family was her, and her mother. And that was it. Thus, taking money from family meant taking money directly from her mother. This wasn't the issue of being self-dependent; this was an issue of her mother spending money on her, and not herself. Many a time would the elder mare sacrifice her own needs for her 'little filly's ones - even the needs Lyra didn't actually need.

The cab stopped before the familiar building - not a shrine of gold and marble, of course, but still a commendable achievement in architecture. The regal mansion looked like a prim countryhouse, mostly - were it not for its size and the spacious garden, cherry trees covered by thick, protecctive blankets of snow. No lopsideness dared offend the house, no stain to shed a shadow upon its straight, prim elegance.

"Straight" was definitely the right world, Lyra had come to conclude. Nothing extraordinarily, nothing out-of-the-way, nothing out-of-place. Just as it was intended: straight, serious architecture, an utilitarian statement to beauty - and life.

Lyra followed her mother inside the garden, her boots leaving shallow hoofprints in the snow. She looked at the building one more time before acending the few steps and going through the front door.

Home.