The Sweetest Music

Chapter Four

But Not For Me

***

Lyra inhaled the blissful snow-enhanced air of the Canterlot Central.

The park was covered with the same white nature-sewn blanket as the rest of the city, but this one seemed different: Lyra didn't actually mind looking at the blindingly-white snow covering the alleys, and the benches - each one holding a story - and the frozen lake, and the neatly naked trees, and the ground - everywhere. This snow, the snow in the park - the snow of the park - was rather pleasant to cast a glance at, holding the green of grass and the brown of dirt, and the warmth of wind, and the rays of sun, and the flowers, the weeds, the roots - everything. It contained everything.

The snow in the city - of the city - wasn't worth casting her eyes upon.

Lyra tugged at her scarf idly, watching the rare passer-by live up to their name and pass by her, not casting a glance, eyes down, moving at a quick, staccato pace, directed towards their goal - eyes on the prize. Of course her mother would give her an itchy scarf. Because, apparently, those are the warmest kind. Her neck itched, but the cold prevented the mare from taking off the relatively-comforting piece of clothing. At least, she was glad her mother didn't know about the police raid; or she'd be out of her mind with worry, much more than Lyra herself.

And probably prohibit me to visit that bar, the lyrist added mentally. Or any bar, for that matter. She chuckled grimly to herself. Now ain't that just a wonderful perspective?

She couldn't sacrifice bars. They were, by far, the only possible escape she had in the whole of Canterlot - given that she was stuck in the damn city forever. Or were they?

Lyra yawned, tired from the full-day work. The early winter sunset was already threatening to cover the city with a dome of darkness, and she hadn't even walked halfway home yet. Still, sometimes, she would take the long way home - she just had to: there was this crucial need telling her to - and walk through the park, and past the train station, and past the forsaken conservatoire that she would occupy on a few select evenings - Saturday evenings, mostly - and play the lyre, concealed from a curious eye and ear, and past the prison - the gaol of medieval, barbaric nonsense: do the crime, do the time, don't do the crime, still do the time, for whatever you do: your orientation, your political stance, your attitude, your honest attempt to help that turned out to be illegal - and then, only then, passing the prison as quickly as she could, without looking back, she could be home.

She could. But did she want to?

The train station was unusually empty for a Saturday evening. As it came into view, Lyra couldn't see any of the usual weekend away-goers, or forever-leavers with their family-criers and foal-clingers, or just curious faces, both of those who came here by accident and those who came here on purpose; and, of course, those who just wanted to see if it was different in other towns, not Canterlot.

Many a time had Lyra stopped there, waited, and moved on. Someday. Someday. So she did now: stopped and looked around.

In the far corner of the station, a guard slumbered, his rust-coloured head resting on beneath his equally-tinted wing. A couple - a stallion and an a-little-younger-looking mare exchanged their goodbyes and kisses. Judging by the suitcases, the stallion was going on a long trip. A group of young stallions, all visibly inebriated, staggered away from the station. Either they had just met a friend arriving in Canterlot or were seeing him off on the train. Or they could all be going somehwere, as a group of friends.

"Can I help you, ma'am?"

Lyra directed her attention towards the source of the voice - the little ticket office that she just so happened to be standing next to - or had she done it deliberately, subconsciosly?

The mint mare looked at the cashier. He was a young, joyful stallion - a student, probably; they always employed students for such jobs - his short-cut mane curled around his horn, the grin on his face genuine - not the kind of polite, artificial smiles older ponies wore.

How many times had she stood there, thinking of just leaving - up and away! But Canterlot was the place, wasn't it? But not for me, Lyra thought, just staring at the cashier. There are times in every pony's life when they have this realisation - an epiphany? - and they act accordingly, and think later, if at all, Lyra remembered. Was this an epiphany?

"Can't get a show in Ponyville," Lyra remembered. "Town's taken by the blues guys." She could just... leave. For a day. She would be back the next day, right? Not that she actually considered those possibilities - or any possibilities, when she leaned in to the tiny window and hoofed a few golden bits. "Ponyville, two-way for the earliest ride."

The young stallion smiled apologetically. "Sorry, ma'am, only one-way tickets for Ponyville."

Lyra nodded.

The little compartment was nice. Her cushion seat was just a little stained, and there were no other ponies there to share it with her. It had taken her twenty-seven steps to get in there. It would take her two hours to get to Ponyville.

Everything around her revealed itself through a hazy tint of daze and crystally clear confusion. Maybe something was wrong with her, to take such on-the-spot decisions. And to actually make them, fulfil them immediately. Maybe this was the right way to do things. Maybe she was just overthinking the whole situation.

Lyra looked out of the window.

Canterlot unveiled before her, a deep shade of grey. She had never truly noticed how grey, how painfully grey it was, even during the white, snowy winter. Grey buildings surrounded by grey trees. Grey dust covering the grey streets. Grey dirt of grey facades of grey cafes and grey restaurants and grey bars - even bars - and grey recording studios, and grey pastry in grey bakeries, and grey ponies in grey clothes - the grey of grey. The grey of everything.

But this grey attracted ponies, in some mysterious, ridiculous way. Ponies craved for Canterlot, from all over the country. You couldn't leave the country - but you could change towns. And, for some reason, uknown to the lyrist, Canterlot was the top destination for travellers and movers. The best-lit, best-crumped, best-tinned cage in all of Equestria.

Born free, raised in a cage. That could be applied to all of them, Lyra thought. Canterlot wasn't the only place. Sure, with the bars - probably the main reason for its being so popular - and the concert halls, and the department stores, and the hotels, and the museums, and the castle - always the castle - and the pavements, and the shops and stores and halls - it probably was the place. Maybe. Maybe it is, Lyra thought one last time as the train began to move.

But not for me.