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// Chapter 2: Frayed Thread// Story: Lullabies Unsung// by Seether00//------------------------------//

Lullabies Unsung

Chapter 2 : Frayed Thread


	Honeysuckle perfume saturated everything. Carried in by the gentle breeze, it wafted through every nook and cranny of Sweet Apple Acres.

	Apple blossoms lay in full bloom.

	Spring was Applejack’s favorite season.
	
	Usually.
	
	Atop a grass covered hill overlooking the southern orchard, Applejack sat under Buford.
	
	Few if any fruit fell from Buford’s branches anymore. The tree had been a victim of a particularly nasty blight which had swept through the southern orchard one season long ago. Still, Applejack always opposed cutting him down, and for good reason.
	
	Buford was Pa’s favorite tree. As he once told her on a cool summer evening, just the two of them hot and sweating from chores, “Sometimes after a long day of apple bucking, you just gotta sit back and look at the big picture. I reckon Buford’s a nice enough chair. At least that’s what my Pa told me.”
	
	He called Buford a thinking tree. Comfortable enough for sitting against, but with a trunk speckled with enough bumps and lumps to keep a pony from dozing off. Besides, Marygold was the napping tree of the farm. Buford weren’t so rude as to take her job.

	Best of all, Buford didn’t judge. He never offered any opinions or made a pony feel ashamed. Not like the patch of red ambling up the hill she spotted from under the rim of her hat.

	A firm believer in farm, family, and literacy—especially how they came together—Applejack had the worst poker face in Equestrian history, and she knew it. But she still took small pride in her ability to read others; such as Apple Bloom swearing that the vase was broken before she arrived, or the times Big Mac was being… more Big Mac than usual. Like today.

	The stalk of grass hanging from his square jaw was an open window into Big Mac’s mind. Most of the time it was a single blade of bluestem, just for thinking and general contemplating; although on occasion, he would explore new and different vistas of thought, which required new and different fuel for those thoughts. Wheat meant plans forming around exactly how to handle the year’s harvest, while a truncated stem of foxtail warned of a stubborn streak where the big lug would work himself into the darkness without a break unless a little sisterly tongue-lashing was applied. And the less said about the rare occasion when Big Mac was chewing on a stem of wild oats the better.

	Today it was a fresh stem of mint; no leaves, just the scraggly ragged marks that indicated all of the thoughts had been chewed out of one end and been frugally reversed for a second round of serious thinking.

	Her brother fancied himself the silent sage of the family who blessed his baby sisters with pearls of wisdom. It was comforting, in way, to know he was always there as a solid support; though it got under her skin the times he forgot she was a grown mare, not the little filly riding piggyback from years gone by.

	Simpler times.

	She wasn’t really sure which she wanted right now.

	“You been layin’ under Buford all morning?” Mint rolled to one side somewhere between apprehension and annoyance.

	“Eeyup,” she replied from under her hat.

	“It’s been five days, AJ. How you feelin’?”

	Applejack didn’t raise her eyes beyond the tip of the stalk of mint. It wobbled in the soft breeze. “...Still angry, I guess,” she finally said after taking a moment to consider.

	She was robbed of that small advantage, however, as her brother moved out of sight, and she felt the thud of his rear hitting the grass as he mirrored her pose on the opposite side of the trunk. Surprising really. Big Macintosh never did like Buford much. Many a switch had come from his branches to meet a misbehaving colt’s backside to turn it an even brighter shade of red.

	She heard him draw in a deep breath of the crisp spring air. “She didn’t ask you girls to come with her, you know?”

	Wise old sage it was then. Lucky her.

	She let out her own sigh and tilted her head back to look amongst the branches. There was a woodpecker resting not too far up. “I reckon I know. Considerin’ I was there and all.” She could almost see in her mind’s eye the stalk of mint making another circuit. Likely counterclockwise as he parsed his next words.

	The woodpecker fluttered to the trunk. Three raps sounded.

	“You know it weren’t Twilight’s fault then?”

	“I know,” she sighed. “I’m right ashamed, big brother. I said some downright rotten things to her. Unforgivable things. Not sure I can face her.”

	“Eeyup, ya did. Yer lucky you’re too old for Granny to tan your hide.” Just as expected, he didn’t mince words. “Don’t matter none though. I doubt there’s any such thing as unforgivable when comes to you gals. Not with all the craziness ya’ll have been through.”

	Another sigh. “Can’t say I even know what to tell her,” she muttered, shaking her head.

	Four raps.

	“Welp, you’ve got bit more time to think on it,” he said. “Spike stopped by. Little guy’s worried ’bout all’a you gals. Turns out Twilight’s goin’ on up to Canterlot for a while.” Applejack heard him shift, getting back on his hooves. “You should probably head on down to Fluttershy’s in the mean time to apologize to her.” 

	A sick feeling formed in the pit of her stomach. “And how am I gonna look her in the eye, Mac? Can’t unchop that tree,” Applejack said, getting back to her hooves. “Even if I say I’m sorry, it don’t change how I feel ’bout this adoption business.”

	Big Macintosh sidled up next her and let out a snort. The stalk of mint pointed south in disapproval. “That there’s just Pa talkin’, AJ.”

	“Yeah, it is. Pa never steered me wrong when he was alive.” She ignored his snort. “Even if you two didn’t always get along.”

	A rare scowl appeared on his features. “Can’t love a stranger’s foal the way you can your own? Now that’s just a load of manure and you know it.”

	“But what if it ain’t?” she snapped.

	“And what if the sun burned out tomorrow? Ya can’t live your life by what ifs, AJ!”
	
	“Can’t I?” she shot back. “Say I adopted some kid, and I don’t feel what I oughtta? Is that fair to ’em? Wake up, serve ’em breakfast and send ’em off school with a fake ‘I love you’ every mornin’?” She shook her head sadly, tears forming, and bolted down the hill as fast as she could, her brother watching her all the while. “It’s wrong, Mac. I can’t take that chance. I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”

	She was halfway down the hill when he called out after her, “Pa weren’t always right!”


	“I want to thank ya again for comin’ round, Miss Fluttershy,” said Granny Smith, sitting a plate of fresh apple fritters down on the crowded table. Company was time for sharing the best, and from the sweating pitcher of fresh lemonade to the empty glasses waiting to be filled, every vessel wore bright shiny red apples normally only seen peeking from behind the glass door of the family china cabinet.

	“I’d ’ve dropped by your house m’self, but with my hip and all...”

	Fluttershy turned a gentle smile as she served them both. Icecubes tinkled and popped as she poured the lemonade, the warm summer sun drawing out the invigorating aroma of fresh citrus. No box mix could hope to compare. The flavor was so bright, so alive, bringing back memories of summers long-passed and lemons picked at the peak of ripeness, hoof-squeezed with just a touch of sugar. It didn’t matter they weren't Apple family lemons. They were Apple family neighbor lemons, and the taste of friendship was only sweeter when shared.
	
	“It’s no trouble at all, Mrs Smith.” Her soft smile faltered a smidge. “Will Applejack be joining us?”

	“Just call me Granny, child.” Pops and creaks marked the protests of old joints as she eased herself into her rocking chair. “And no, she won’t.” She sighed deeply. “That’s the reason I called ya over, dearie. I wanted to apologize to ya. Once the liquor wore off, Applejack felt right ’shamed over what she said, as right she should,” said Granny, shaking her head. “Not excusin’ her behavior. No Siree! Talkin’ nonsense like it’s gospel! Tch! Like my Ma always told us, ‘Ya gotta cherish the fruit no matter what tree it falls outta.’ Like what you’re doin’. It’s right big-hearted of ya, payin’ for a child all the way on the other side of the world. Makes me wish I had some extra bits to spare.”

	“Oh yes, it’s wonderful,” Fluttershy said, opening up her saddlebags and removing a stack of pamphlets that all covered different topics related to sponsorship or adoption. Paperclipped to one was a photograph of a little zebra filly with a big smile Her blue eyes were looking directly at the camera and a pink butterfly clip was affixed to her braid, making her look as if she were ready to step right out of the picture. “I wish I could meet Zuri someday.” Fluttershy shook her head sadly. “But the sponsorship rules are rather strict about the kind of contact we’re allowed to have.”

	She took another sip, an almost inaudible sigh escaping her lips. “I’m not angry with Applejack, Granny. I mean… I mean what right do I have? I’m sure she didn’t mean those terrible, mean things she said… Not that I think she’s terrible! I’d never think that! She was just upset.
	
	“Oh, I know she doesn’t think I’m stupid, or careless, or…” The glass trembled and Fluttershy found it best to rest it back on the table. “I mean we did go and bother when she wanted to be left alone and…” she slumped into the chair despite the discomfort to her wings. Another sigh, this one louder by one degree. “I just-I just… I wish she’d just talk to me again, Granny Smith.” Fluttershy sniffled, hugging herself and rocking.

	“And she will, sugarcube. Trust me, she will. In her own time. You just gotta give her some time is all. AJ may act like a tough ol’ scrape o’ leather most of the time, but I know my granddaughter. She knows she’s done you wrong and should apologize. Scared and ashamed is all.”
	
	“Scared? Of me?”
	
	“Mmmhmm.” Granny nodded. “Scared of what you’ll say. Scared she ruined y'all's friendship. As for why she said what she said, it’s a bit a tale.” Eyes closed as she eased deeper into her chair. “Now my husband was a good stallion. Hay, I wouldn’t a married him ifin he weren’t. But he weren’t perfect. Had some odd notions now and again. One o’ those was you can’t love a stranger’s child the same as your own blood. A load of pig slop I told ‘em, but he had that Apple stubbornness. As it turned out he passed on those same notions to our son, nevermind my best efforts to contrary.
	
	“Big Mac, he took after his mother. Strong, silent type of mare. She didn’t go in for that nonsense, but Applejack, she was always Daddy’s Little Rodeo Princess. Hung on his every word. Not sayin’ all he taught her was wrong. All in all, he brought her up right. She wouldn’t be the mare she is today t’weren’t for his lessons, but… Dagnabit. I don’t know. Maybe if I’d spoken up, things would’ve turned out different.”
	
	Fluttershy started to reply, but they both turned as the door creaked open.
	

	
	“Granny I’m…” Catching sight of Fluttershy, she stopped. “Oh… I didn’t realize we had company,” Applejack said, averting eyes, her hat a refuge, a thin one at that, as Granny fixed her with a sharp glare that dragged her forward into the room even as her mind wanted to flee. The old mare rose to her hooves with a few popping sounds, never once breaking eye contact until she turned away with the words Applejack least wanted to hear.

	“I’ll just leave you two to it then.”
	
	Applejack watched as Granny left. She stared around the room, anywhere but at her friend. At least until she felt a soft touch on shoulder.
	
	“Applejack, I—” 
	“Fluttershy, I—”
	
	An embarrassed pause as Fluttershy scratched the floor. Applejack rubbed her neck.
	
	“Why don’t you go first?” she offered.
	
	“No, no. You first. I insist,” Fluttershy prompted
	
	“Fluttershy, I…” It felt more comfortable to follow the grain along the floorboards. “Horseapples, I don’t know why this is so hard, so I’ll just say it! Fluttershy, I’m–I hurt your feelings! I feel plumb awful ’bout it.”
	
	Fluttershy found herself pulled into hug filled with all of Applejack’s strength, strength she returned without hesitation to whisper, “Don’t worry. I forgive you.”

	Neither wanted to pull away as those few moments of warmth and touch were equivalent to an entire hour’s worth of cheap words. Applejack wiped away a tear. “I was upset. I didn’t think about how what I was saying would affect you gals.”

	“It’s okay, Applejack.” Fluttershy passed her a tissue. “We were all under a lot of stress that night. I guess… I know we all said things we regret.”

	Applejack took the offered tissue with a grateful nod and blew her nose. “And I thank you for that, Flutters.”

	And she truly, truly did. The sickness from the morning. The ball of tension in her belly that had wound and wound itself tighter and tighter all week long, finally loosened. All it took was one glance at the pure forgiveness in Fluttershy’s eyes. She chuckled quietly, feeling a mite foolish for expecting anything less from the kindly pegasus.

	“It’s more than I deserve, I know,” she said with a sniffle. Clearing her throat, Applejack straightened her hat. “Now, knowing you, Fluttershy, you’ll say we’re square, but I still feels I owe you. So how ’bout I make you some lunch for starters?”

	The offer of an Applejack prepared meal. Tempting, but, taking a glance at the clock, “Oh no.” Fluttershy replied, shaking of her head. “Thank you for offering though. But it’s getting into the afternoon, and today’s the day I buy fresh birdseed and I’m almost out.”

	“How about a raincheck then?”

	“Oh absolutely. I look forward to it.” Fluttershy smiled as she walked towards to the door. “By the way, I left some pamphlets about adoption on the table… in case you change your mind, that is. Not that I’m trying to push you or anything,” she tacked on.

	“I know. I know. Mighty kind of ya. Have a safe walk home.”
	
	A wave, and once Fluttershy disappeared passed the front gate, Applejack turned her attention to cleaning up, returning pitcher, plates, and glass back to the kitchen. She collected the pamphlets into a bundle, and after pausing briefly by the trash can, stuffed them into a kitchen drawer with the rest of the junk mail.



	Burning hair.

	Burning hair mixed with leaves.
	
	The stench was heavy enough to make passersby retch in disgust. Rarity didn’t mind the smell. She’d grown accustomed to it, in fact. 
	
	Opening another window was a such a bother, especially after all the trouble she’d gone through lighting the fireplace.

	The sign was flipped to ‘Closed.’

	Rarity hadn’t left Carousel Boutique in two days.
	
	She stared at the blank page. It mocked her.

	Only a few days previous, she had started work on her latest and most ambitious line. What she had expected without a doubt to be the talk of the season.

	Spring - Life's Renewal
	
	Only a single dress of the six she had created survived the fireplace. Two days of work had added nothing to her collection but charred ashes. To dispose of the remaining dress would have been an admission of guilt, a confession that she was bothered by her newfound knowledge. As long as it remained, she was merely changing a few middling details in the line. Nothing serious, of course.
	
	Rarity hadn’t left Carousel Boutique in three days.

	The plan was to just do ‘whatever came to mind.’ It had not turned out as well as she hoped.

	An entire bolt of chenille was cut into tiny rectangles in a frenzy of activity.
	
	The wastebasket overflowed.
	
	The sign remained ‘Closed.’
	
	Rarity hadn’t left Carousel Boutique in four days
	
	There was a mess on the floor.
	
	Or rather more of a mess than Rarity's usual controlled chaos. The Inspiration Room lay in tatters, drawers pulled open, fabric criss-crossed across the floor.
	
	Yet…
	
	Yet she still could see no pattern.
	
	The door to the Inspiration Room gained a padlock.
	
	The sign remained ‘Closed.’
	
	Rarity hadn’t left Carousel Boutique in five days.
         
	The sign was marked ‘Open’ and a merry sunshine streamed through the windows.

	Her calendar informed her of a visitor today and only three hours to prepare. Not that Rarity had forgotten, mind you. Goodness no! That would be unheard of. She was of sound mind after all. In any case, today she was not just Rarity. Today she was also The Proprietress.
	
	The Proprietress had taken a two hour bath. A teensy bit excessive even for her, but two hours turned out to be the time required to wash away the stench of failure. The expected perfumes, powders, and hair products were deftly applied, the curling iron was put to proper use, and only one artificial beauty enhancement was left: the perfect smile.

	The mask was complete.
	
	One didn’t stay in her chosen industry long without one, and Rarity had perfected many over the years.

	There was no time for regrets. It was time for work.

	All leavings were swept into back rooms and closets. The windows opened wide to allow the refreshing spring breeze to whisk away the incriminating odor of soot and fire. Rarity made sure no visible evidence remained.

	Not a moment too soon, as the bell above the entrance chimed. Rarity made note to have it removed. It was far too merry.

	“Bonjour, Miss Rarity!” Fleur di Lis waltzed into to the showroom with all the grace and poise Rarity had come to expect from the professional model. “How good to see you. I trust you are well n’est-ce pas?” she asked, embracing and kissing Rarity on each cheek.

	“Moi?” The mask remained firmly in place. “Why, I am wonderful, darling. Perfectly wonderful!” the Proprietress said with the extra cheer expected of her, returning the gesture. “How are affairs with yourself?”
	
	“Oh, I cannot complain for work,” Fleur replied as Rarity lead her to an already set tea table. “Photo Finish, she keeps me so very busy. Even with new blood joining the company.” A frown marred her delicate features. “But these new models. Merde!” she swore, an event Rarity was one of the few ponies besides her husband privileged enough to witness. Coarse words delivered in such an elegant language. Rather like wiping one’s bottom with fine silk.

	“They are… how you say, ‘the female dogs’? Always with the snide remarks,” Fleur spat. “The backstabbing! Not like my generation at all,” she complained, shaking her head in dismay. “It grows so, so tiresome. You are lucky to live in the quiet countryside, Rarity. Free of the clucking hens. Free of troubles.”

	“Yes, free of troubles.” Rarity repeated as they sat down.

	As they chatted, it felt odd; Rarity, for the life of her, couldn’t quite fathom why. In many ways, Fleur was the type of friend she always dreamt of: charming, well-mannered, gifted with an impeccable sense of fashion, plus a vivacious spirit—a stark contrast to her more down-to-earth husband.
	
	And yet she was a giving soul. Rarity had first spoken to her at length during one of the many charity balls thrown all over Canterlot. They’d become fast friends over shared interests: the latest high society gossip, what was in this season, even tales of Rarity’s past adventures surprisingly enough. It turned out Fleur was a bit of an adventurer herself, having traveled to far and remote places of the world as a goodwill ambassador.
	
	In fact, the tea set was a gift from the couple. An antique found during a trip to the Shetland Isles, it was a bone china affair done in the style favored by the post-unification unicorn nobility. Rarity especially delighted in the raised leaves of ivy which chased bouquets of purple violets. Fine gold decorated the edges.

	The teapot gently floated in a field of blue and she poured tea—strong black tea, spiced with clove, imported straight from Chenneigh. Very expensive.

	Normally, Fleur’s visits were the highlight of her month. Tea and dainty cucumber sandwiches were served alongside a generous helping of juicy gossip.

	Yet, now, the travails of the Canterlot Elite, complete with its affairs and scandals— news once certain to elicit at least a coo of delight—left Rarity unsatisfied. The once tasty morsels flavorless. Shallow and meaningless, she found herself unable to absorb any of it.

	Rarity suspected why… But, of course, no. Everything was quite normal. 
        
	“Ma chère, n'êtes-vous pas tout a fait d'accord?”
        
	The inquiry came as a surprise. Had not the mask offered the expected cursory nods? Titters at proper intervals? She was certain it had.

	“It’s nothing, dear. Nothing at all,” Rarity said. Fleur tilted her head to one side, and Rarity quickly changed the subject. “I was just imagining how stunning you shall look in my new spring line.”

	To her relief the promise of a sneak peek at something new grabbed Fleur’s attention, who clapped with glee.

	“Wonderful! Wonderful! You will let me try it on, oui?”

	For all her melancholy over the mysterious disappearance of her muse these last few days, Rarity did admit Fleur’s slender frame made her one surviving design look fantastic.

	One of her admittedly simpler pieces, designed for both looks and wearablity. A loose fitting shortsleeve top stitched from breathable linen, dyed a light shade of pink, the top cinched at the waist by a belt one shade darker. A rose-colored miniskirt composed of faux-leather completed the outfit. A rather daring hemline stopped just above mid-thigh, but Fleur was one the few ponies she knew gifted with the legs to pull it off.

	She was so caught up in examining the model from every angle that Rarity failed to catch Fleur speaking.

	“...It’s a shame about Lord Bottle Brush, oui?”
	
	“I’m sorry, dear. What was that?” The left shoulder drooped slightly. It could do with a little straightening.

	“Lord Bottle Brush. His title is to be passed to his younger brother.” Fleur tutted as pin, scissors, and measuring tape orbited the stage. “Such a shame. All because the poor stallion cannot produce an heir. How unfortunate. They say that where he tills the soil, nothing grows. Ouch! Rarity, ma chère! Please, careful with the pins s'il vous plaît!”

	“So sorry!” The Proprietress scrambled to cover the web of tiny cracks forming in her mask. Just slivers really. She just needed a moment. “But surely,” she said, having moved behind her client to fiddle with skirt’s hem, “he is still welcome in our circle? He is still a stallion of peerage, after all.”

	Fleur’s giggle sounded like tinkling glass. It reminded Rarity of the wine glass she’d dropped on the kitchen floor that morning.

	Why she hadn’t gotten around sweeping the shards into the trash, she couldn’t say.

	“Oh, Rarity. This is why I love visiting you. You are one of us, but still maintain that air of delightful country town innocence about you,” Fleur tittered, a hoof over her mouth. “But non. The rules, unsaid as they may be, they make this quite impossible. Once you are out, you are out. Et c'est tout. Such a sad tale. Luckily, not something either of us need worry about, n’est-ce pas?”

	“No,” Rarity replied, still making a show of fixing the skirt. “Nothing to worry about at all.”

	“Oh, Je suis désolé, Rarity.” Fleur pouted as she turned to glance over her shoulder. “I have upset you with this depressing news. Zut alors! I speak without thinking. You forgive me, non?” She gave a playful twirl on the dias. “This outfit is simply darling. I’ll recommended it to all my friends.”

	Rarity returned a small smile. “And when have you not loved one my creations, my dear?”
	
	“Hmm…” Fleur made a show of thinking by lifting a hoof to cradle her chin. “I cannot think of any moments. Oh!” she exclaimed. “Before I forget, Fancy and I shall be vacationing in Haywaii next week.”
	
	“So early in the year?” asked Rarity. “It’s hardly summer, dear.”
	
	Fleur waved her question away. “It was a last minute whim of his. My poor husband has been working himself to the bone lately. A getaway will do him a world of good. I was hoping to pick up a bathing suit while I was here.”
	
	“A bit early in the season, but I may have something.” A number of drawers were pulled open and a train of swimwear soon floated through the air. Rarity sent Fleur into a nearby changing room after selecting a tasteful, but high-cut seablue one piece and matching sarong.
	
	She was putting away the remaining swimwear when the same sickeningly cheerful bell marked another visitor.
	
	“Rarity, I’ve been worried sick! As soon as I saw the boutique was open again, I ran right over! It’s been almost a week!”
	
	Spike…
	
	He wrapped his little arms around her neck, pulling her into a warm hug. She didn’t reciprocate. Her eyes darted to the drawn curtain of the changing booth.

	“Spike, sweetie.” Rarity weaved a glowing smile and turned, tossing her curls just the way she knew he liked. “Whatever do you mean? I am quite sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, drawing a frown out of the dragon. As gently as she could manage, Rarity began ushering him back towards the entrance. “Perhaps we can chat later. I’m afraid I am quite, quite busy at the moment.”
	
	“Rarity, stop!” Spike planted his feet firmly in the ground and frowned up at her. “You don’t have to pretend nothing’s wrong. Twilight told me everything.”
	
	Her eyes widened, mask cracking. She hesitated a glance back again towards the curtain. “Don’t be silly, Spike.” Her nervous laugh failed to deter him. He wrapped his little arms around her neck once again. She tried to pull away, but it was no use.
	
	Why did he have to be so infuriatingly supportive?
	
	“I know what you’re doing, Rarity. I’ve read about this. You’re in denial.”
	
	“I am not in denial about anything, Spike!” Her voice rose as he finally released her. “And I certainly do not have a problem,” she huffed. “I’ve simply been busy. The muse is fickle. Now, it’s been wonderful seeing you, but I think it’s best if you take your leave.”
	
	Much to her frustration, he simply crossed his arms. “No way. I’m not leaving so you can lock yourself away from everyone again.” He shook his head sadly. “You really hurt Twilight, Rarity. You and Applejack. She’s leaving tonight to stay in Canterlot for a few weeks. I was hoping you girls could patch things up.” He clearly wasn’t prepared for the look of pure loathing which erupted on her features.

	“Patch things up?!” she hissed, forcing him back a step. “How would you say I patch things up, Spike?”

	“I didn’t mean—”
	
	“Oh be quiet, Spike!” The mask shattered into tiny fragments as she flung it across the room. “What do think? Do you truly believe the situation can be fixed so easily? I will never bear children, Spike! This isn’t something that can simply be glued back together like some… some cheap, mass-produced plastic figurine!”
	
	“Rarity,” Spike whimpered. “Please. I was just trying to—”
	
	“Trying to what?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer. A wave of emotions crested and she rode them. “You truly are a child, Spike,” she told him. The fire in her heart went out, turning into arctic frost: cold, cutting, emotionless. How dare he presume. This boy. This whelp. How could he possibly understand her pain? “Let me ask you a question. Do you believe me blind?”
	
	He flinched as if cut. “Of course not, Rarity! I would never think that!”
	
	She cut again, unheedful as he shrank before her. “Then do you truly believe I don’t know about your little... ‘infatuation’?”
	
	Spike settled for staring down at his twiddling fingers. He couldn’t even look at her. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
	
	“Did you really come to comfort me, or did you see this as an opportunity? Perhaps you thought, ‘Now that no stallion will have her, I can swoop in like some fairytale knight to rescue his maiden? She should be thrilled! With children no longer a concern, we, a dragon and a pony, can finally be together! Is that what ran through your mind as you dashed across town to see me, Spike? Well? Speak up!”

	His silence told her everything she needed to know.

	“Spike,” she said with finality. “I believe you should leave.”

	“But—”

	“Leave, Spike.” She held the door open. “Now.”

	As Rarity watched him run away, his sobs fading into the distance, all energy drained out of her. Despondence measured her heart for drapes and rugs, and proceeded to bring all of its furniture along. Guilt soon followed, nailing pictures to the wall and stomping around in hobnailed boots. Spike hadn’t deserved the tongue lashing she’d inflicted on him. 
	
	Rarity made to take a step forward, to gallop after him, to catch him. It wouldn’t be difficult. Four legs outdistanced two. She could apologize, explain herself. He would accept it, she knew. Softhearted Spike, always so forgiving, especially to her, the least deserving. 
	
	But she hesitated. She just felt too tired. Not sad. Not angry. Just tired.
	
	“Rarity?”
	
	Fleur. She’d forgotten. Of course. But what did it matter now?
	
	“I assume you heard everything, dear.” Rarity lacked even the energy to turn around. Spike was out of eyesight now, but she could still see every falling teardrop in her mind’s eye. A heavy sighed trailed into a small laugh. “I suppose I’m uninvited from your next soirée. Please give Fancy my regards, won’t you?”

	An unexpected, yet gentle hoof came to rest on her shoulder. “Ma pauvre, pauvre amie.” Rarity found herself pulled into a warm embrace with taller placing her head on top of hers. “You believe truly we would abandon you, now, when you need us most? Vous êtes une imbécile. You think so little of us, n'est-ce pas?”
	
	“What about ‘When you are out, you are out’?”
	
	“I can’t deny that, I’m afraid,” Fleur admitted with reluctance. “But, you are not Lord Bottle Brush. We barely knew him. Where you, you are our dear, dear friend. You don’t have to worry about us keeping your confidence.” She withdrew her foreleg and reached down to cup Rarity’s face, lifting their gaze level. Rarity’s makeup drew a map, thin black lines marking her cheeks for one to navigate her regret. Fleur cleaned them away with gentle wipes of a silk handkerchief. “You know what you must do now,” she said after the cloth had become saturated, now no longer white. “Ce pauvre enfant. You must go after him, oui?”
	
	Rarity sniffed, wiping her eyes clean. “Yes, you are right, Fleur. I’ve hurt my poor Spiky-Wiky dearly. My apologies for all this… drama, but I must cut our visit short.”
	
	Fleur offered a dainty wave. “Don’t worry so. Go. I can look after the shop for you,” she offered as Rarity returned a nuzzle of her own.
	
	Rarity pulled herself together “Thank you, dear. I’m off—”
	
	“Rarity!”
	
	A white blur knocked the wind out of her as Sweetie Belle cannonballed into the shop. The first thing she noticed was the growing patch of moisture matting her coat as Sweetie sobbed into her chest, tears and unmentionable mucus pouring out in an unstoppable torrent.
	
	Rarity ignored the patch of snot left on her chest which, in other circumstances, would have sent her screaming to the shower tout de suite. “Sweetie Belle! Whatever is the matter, dear?”


