Sweetie Belle was helped to her hooves by an elderly stallion. "Are you all right, Miss?" he asked.

She fixed the hair around her horn nonchalantly then turned to her Samaritan with a toothy grin. "Chipped teeth?"

"No, ma'am," replied the old buck.

"Bloody nose?" she asked with a sniffle.

"Fresh as the day you were born," he said. "You're ready for the ball, young lady!"

She curtsied her road-smeared, loose-fitting turtleneck and shared a chuckle with the old man as Rarity inspected her over. "Hear that, Rarity?" she said cheekily as her sister brushed her off. "Fresh as the day I was born."

"You should be ashamed of yourself, sir," Rarity said in a mock tone. "For all you know the young lady may really be going to a ball, and be perfectly willing to attend looking like an old mushroom, if you let her."

"In point of fact," Sweetie Belle rejoined, "we are attending a lunch with friends, and I'm sure they wouldn't hold it against me if I showed up in a big bowl of mushroom salad."

"Perhaps not," her sister replied, "but this will be more than just a get-together—it is a special picnic prepared just for you, little sister, in honor of your performance in town tonight. Don't you want to look nice for your debut?"

"Is that right? Where's the show at?" asked the old man.

"Ponyville First Universalist," Sweetie Belle answered, pointing back up the hill like she was giving directions to an unmarked treasure. "You don't want to miss this—it's black box theater. I'm with a company under the famous Bon Temps, who rarely makes appearances outside of Rolling Oats. Seating is limited due to capacity restrictions but if you come around six thirty we can get you in. I won't tell the fire marshal, I promise."

"There's also a silent cleansing at four, if you'd also like to attend that," Rarity added.

The stallion laughed windily and tottered his head toward the town clock. His smile faded a little. "We'll see. I'm sure anything either of you lovely ladies decided to star in could pack the house." He turned to go. "Watch your step, now."

Sweetie Belle smiled and waved him goodbye; Rarity rolled her eyes.

"You dope," she said. "Don't tell me you're taken in by an old flatterer."

"You never know. That 'old flatter' might be a patron of the arts."

"Here in the streets of Ponyville, you think?"

Sweetie Belle laughed and threw an arm around her older sister, nearly knocking her over. "That's why I love you, sis. You're so excruciatingly candid beneath all that hair spray," she said, teasing one of Rarity's violet locks.

"Ugh, please, Sweetie Belle! Will you at least pretend to act with a bit of civility, for my sake? Do it for your long-suffering sister, if not for your reputation as an aspiring actress."

"Will you stop bringing that into this?" Sweetie Belle chuffed at her. "This isn't Manehattan. Just because my clothes are a little dusty doesn't mean I don't care about what I do. You know where all this sweat comes from? Demanding rehearsals in a hot chapel. Moving equipment. Arranging furniture—"

"I didn't say that, dear."

"But you meant it."

They began walking again. As they passed by the town park, Sweetie Belle, glancing for a rise from her sister, threw in: "Besides, who is going to judge me? Apple Bloom? How could I possibly get any lower in her estimation, anyway?"

"You were just telling me how nervous you are that Princess Cadence is going to be there tonight. That's all. I didn't intend to upset your artistic sensibility."

Sweetie Belle looked away with a half-smirk. "You are so impossible sometimes. I'm nervous because I want to do justice for black box theater. Cadence is a pony that listens, like you said. And that is the most a performer can ask for."

"She won't be at the lunch, then?"

"She'll be there. It will be her, Twilight, Rainbow Dash and Applejack—of course—and Apple Bloom. Very casual."

They carried on in silence for a short way. Then Rarity said: "Oh, there is a minor thing I should mention."

"What is that?"

"Earlier when you tripped, the key in the side pouch of your bag flew out and I may have… swallowed it," she said, massaging her throat. "I think I will be okay. But we will have to make sure to stop and see the chapel administrators to get a spare before your show begins."

Sweetie Belle halted in the street. "You did what!? Please tell me you're joking, Rarity." She spoke with a severity that shocked her older sister; the latter recoiled like she had been bitten by a puppy for the first time after trying to play with its chew-bone.

"W-what, you mean there's no spare?" she stammered. "I suppose that's something you have to be mindful of with these old places. Well we'll figure something out."

Sweetie Belle glared at her a moment longer. She went to speak, but instead removed her saddle bag and began to rummage through its compartments as it flattened out against the warm bricks of the plaza. She sighed aloud a few times as she picked through her belongings while Rarity stood mute like a delinquent student having her locker investigated; after a minute of searching Sweetie Belle threw her head back in resignation. "I can't believe it. Don't even talk to me right now."

"Well I didn't do it on purpose," Rarity rebutted in a low voice.

"Of course you didn't," Sweetie Belle snapped. "I guess not eating the key to the venue of the performance I've spent a month pulling together is easier said than done."

"Well!" Rarity fired back. "How dare you take that tone with me! I come all the way from Manehattan just to see you and here you are trying to make me feel foolish. I see you're getting quite good at that, Sweetie Belle. I have half a mind to take the next train back to the city."

Nearby the babble of a young colt cut the patter of the bustle in Ponyville Square. He had thrown a penny bit into the fountain and was up on his hind legs trying to recognize which in the old mosaic of coins at the bottom of the well had been his. The coins under the water, his mother explained, couldn't be touched; the boy was so impressed by the undersea world he had helped to create that he took a pouch of bits and broadcast them into the pool, to observe what the world might look like in flux. By this he attracted the amusement of a few passersby, and the mother snatched the boy away before he could see the result of his experiment.

"I'm sorry," said Rarity.

Sweetie Belle let out another heavy sigh. "No, you're right. It's not your fault. I'm sorry if I'm acting like a bitch," she said, beginning a pace. "It's just that I have no idea what I'm going to do now, or what I'm going say to Miss Bon, or what I'm going to tell the others—"

"Sweetie Belle you're not… that, and I won't hear another word of it. I understand the stress you must be feeling—trust me, I've been there too. Also, language, please."

"Sorry."

"Now… chin up, lady! Let's nip this in the bud so we can get on with our afternoon. It will be perfect—we've been through far worse, after all."

Sweetie Belle took a breath. "Right. No need to panic. We've been through far worse."

"Why, to be sure!" said Rarity. "Now, perhaps we know someone who can open the door for us? I was thinking… someone burly. Maybe we will see Big Mac at the picnic today, and we can ask him to help us with his special equipment."

"Special equipment? Like what?"

"Have you not seen his workshop?" asked Rarity. "He must have tools going back a hundred years, passed on through generations of Apples. It's a cave of wonders, I tell you. A full history would make a very interesting magazine article."

Sweetie Belle shrugged. "I think it's all like… old chisels, though."

"Maybe with a little elbow grease. He is very strong, you know."

"Rarity, it's a metal door."

"In that case," Rarity said in accord, "he might have some special tree felling machinery that may be of advantage. It wouldn't hurt to ask."

Sweetie Belle frowned. "I think the best way to go would be to find someone who could pick the lock."

"Ooh, good idea!" said Rarity. "What about that friend of yours—I forget her name, poor dear, but you remember, she was the one who ruined the parade that one year?"

"You mean Babs Seed?"

"Yes! That's the one! Good old 'Babs Seed'. I don't like to judge but she seems like she's broken into a few places if you get my drift. Wouldn't it be nice for her to branch out? I'm sure she would love to share in the completion of your success, and provide a small favor to the community."

"Babs doesn't live in Ponyville," said Sweetie Belle. "In fact, I don't know where she lives because I haven't talked to her in three years or so. Manehattan, still, probably. Too bad you didn't bring her along with you."

"Oh, phooey. You know, it gives me an idea, though. Perhaps in the spirit of Babs Seed we can find our own passage into the church? I wonder how secure those boarded up doors are," Rarity said, rubbing her chin like a prospector having found in her sieve an antique lug.

"I appreciate your enthusiasm," Sweetie Belle said charily, "but I'd like to avoid causing any kind of property damage or getting involved in suspicious activity. I'm the facilitator—it's my job to make sure those things don't happen."

"Hmm, yes, I think you have a point."

"What I meant was that maybe we can ask one of the princesses to unlock the bolt."

Rarity itched a spot on her neck. "Hmm… No, I don't think it will be necessary for us to go through with all of that."

"Why not?"

"Because, Sweetie Belle—and I hate to put this sort of spin on things, but you'll understand when you're a little older—I am an established mare," Rarity explained as she straightened her mane. "Now, I ask you, how should someone in my position go about asking such a favor? These things must be considered. Shall I ask Princess Cadence if she knows how to pick locks? Or perhaps I should pull Twilight aside and away from her no doubt busy schedule, and ask if she can come by and open the door to the old church for us? I am sure that out of the goodness of their hearts—for we are dealing with very fine mares—that they would condescend to help if it were in the power to do so. But my own chances to break bread with my friends are these days so rare, and besides, now so interfingered, as it were, with prestigious company, that it does not wear well with me to 'cadge the swells' on behalf of petty requests on those precious, precious occasions."

"But it's not petty," Sweetie Belle objected. "It's the reason we're all here. A little chagrin is a small sacrifice to make."

"Like I said, Sweetie Belle," Rarity pressed on, "you will understand when you're older. But don't think that I would turn down such a fine and practical suggestion if I did not have one of my own, other and better. For there is a natural solution to our predicament."

Sweetie Belle considered the proposition. "In just about any other situation, I'd be touched to hear that you were willing to do something like that for my sake. Which I am, of course. But I'm a little worried that we'd be putting trust in something which is beyond our control… Call it 'misplaced faith'."

"Faith is what you are willing to die with—that's all," said Rarity. "What we are dealing with here is a little chance and probability, and that can be dealt with by planning. But I know myself and my rhythms, if it may be so put, and in any case better than I do the discretion of our venerated hosts. And keeping the task within the scope of our own handling is the most direct approach, don't you think?"

"I guess you're right. Maybe it's not such a bad idea… We could stop at the pancake house and tell Applejack that you had a big breakfast."

"Oh, no, we couldn't do that!" said Rarity. "You know how Applejack is. It would be extremely inconsiderate of us if she went through all that trouble to host a lunch, only for me to turn away from my plate. She really is a star for doing this."

Sweetie Belle nodded. "Maybe just a few pancakes, then. A short stack—a little insurance policy?"

"Fine, fine. Then it will simply be a matter of stealing away to powder my nose, and the precious artifact will be recovered in complete secrecy whilst we enjoy the company of our chums."

"You know, we make a pretty good team, you and I," Sweetie Belle said, putting her bag back on. "We should run for office together some day."

"Quite right—let the die be cast!" Rarity decreed as she joined her sister and they quit the square at a quick tempo.

***
***

The girls made a diversion to Carousel Boutique where Rarity changed out of her city clothes and Sweetie Belle washed herself; then they went to Bayard's Café to fulfill the first stage of their plan to reobtain the key to the old church. They tipped the waitress who brought the small stack of blueberry pancakes generously, and explained that Rarity was recovering from a fast and trying to manage her blood sugar.

"We have one mission this afternoon," Rarity said when her sister caught her blushing. "And that is to get you to the performance tonight!"

Sweetie Belle sipped her coffee.

From there they went to Sweet Apple Acres. As they crossed the yard they heard murmurs from behind the barn house, and guessed that the picnic was being held by the babbling brook which ran there and that most or all of the guests were already in attendance. On the approach they heard an incongruent voice amidst some laughter, and Rarity turned to Sweetie Belle and asked if she had forgotten to mention an invitee during their conversation in the square.

"I'm not being pushy," she said. "I know for sure that it is one of Rainbow Dash's Wonderbolt friends, and I am trying to prepare myself."

"The more the merrier?" Sweetie Belle replied cautiously.

"You don't understand. Rainbow is an old and dear friend, of course. But she is the last pony I'd want to know about our little predicament. This is just the kind of jab she will bring up at parties, soirees, meet and greets, for years and years, and no one will learn anything from it. That is the real crime, Sweetie Belle. Everything is a laughingstock with her. And I worry that she and her mates might infect the others with their ribaldry."

"If they crank, we crank back," said Sweetie Belle, inhabiting the mien of a military officer. "Just fill up and be your lovely self and leave the ribaldry to me. We will make it through with minimal casualties."

"Don't josh. You know I'm doing this for you."

"You don't need to worry about it so much," Sweetie Belle said. "That is the tell of a beginning actor. Miss Bon says that it is like taking a bitter medicine to learn that the audience is not there to see you, but good medicine, because it allows you to immerse yourself in the task at hoof. That's our responsibility to the ponies who come to the theater."

"Ah, so you're inured to appeals to sympathy, you briny spirit of the seafaring way," Rarity said witheringly. "I suppose I will just have to abide as your caring older audient."

"Oh, save it."

They arrived at a lull in the conversation of the picnickers. The company was seated around a red checkered blanket in front of small plates whose portions were drawn from a buffet which bunked from one side of the picnic cloth down to a vacant end. The central theme was country bean burgers and red lentil salad topped with walnuts and a creamy pumpkin sauce—an outdoor favorite with a note of autumnal coziness. To these were added two contrasting soups: one a hearty white bean which shone like a notched pearl under the sun, and the other watercress, light and evocative, green as a work of van Doe in her declining years. Down-blanket there was a bowl of macaroni and cheese flanked by vegetable pilaf and a platter of tumescent roasted onions with singed tips; nearby, salted almonds lorded high in a beveled serving dish; sautéed garlic mushrooms, asparagus with butter, potato and squash wedges with eggplant dip, fell prostrate to those gulling about the blanket; and a batch of apricots drizzled with honey promised a sweet and sticky conclusion. Apple Bloom, Princess Twilight, and Princess Cadence occupied the left side of the empty space, while Rainbow Dash and her guest, Master Sergeant Spitfire of the Equestrian Wonderbolt Air Forces, sat opposite to them on the right; at the head of the cloth was Applejack, cook and curator of the feast.

"Ah, the star of the hour has arrived!" Cadence announced, standing up. "Perhaps you would care for something to eat?"

"Hello, ladies!" Rarity answered. "Look at you all, lovely lot."

"Sit down!" said Apple Bloom, beaming; she motioned for Sweetie Belle to have a seat at the opposite head of the blanket.

Sweetie Belle turned to Rarity. "You go," she said, recusing herself to allow her sister to take a place there; but the latter marched past her and plunked herself decidedly next to the Master Sergeant, and patted the lawn of the open space which was left open.

"Sweetie Belle, sit!" she said. "It is your right place as the guest of honor."

Sweetie Belle glanced around the picnic blanket like a fetch dog contemplating a tennis ball floating on a lake. "No surer sign you've made it than being party to a roast, right?"

"Eat up, darlin'!" said Applejack, exercising chief status. "The only thing getting roasted today are these onions, and that's over and done with."

"The pumpkin dressing is delicious," Cadence added.

Sweetie Belle took her place and began to make a plate. "Thanks. I shouldn't have too much, though…" She gathered a little watercress soup and a few squash wedges as a side.

"You on a diet, kid?" Spitfire asked her.

Sweetie Belle blushed. "Heh, not really. It's more of a lifestyle thing. It helps not to overeat before a performance."

"That's true!" said the officer in approval.

"I guess we know that Rarity's not going to be performing any time in the near future, eh?" said Rainbow Dash, peering with unconcealed amusement at the lunch which the former had made for herself: Rarity had taken two bean burgers and lumped on top of them a mound of macaroni and cheese, lined them with several sides, and was already devouring from a second plate brimming with lentil salad.

Rarity made sure to finish chewing before answering: "One thing I have learned in my travels, Rainbow Dash, is that if someone of acquaintance offers food one should always accept it. It's not just about one's own comfort, you know."

"You have some way of trying to comfort us," Rainbow Dash replied with a little elbow to Spitfire.

"Now, now, there's plenty for everyone," Applejack interceded. "I say, a good appetite is the mark of a good mare. No offense to you, Sweetie Belle—you're just gettin' ready for your little show. Poor Rarity here's probably been running around all mornin', I wager, coming from the city."

"I've been up since quite early indeed," said Rarity between bites, "and you would not believe what my sister has gotten herself into." She slopped a helping of vegetable pilaf onto her plate. "Let me tell you, this is no 'little show'. It's something involving monkeys, or rather a lack thereof. I have never seen so many quiet teenagers in the same place, and they have a rampart of drum kits and a headmistress who lurks in the shadows. It is almost beyond comprehension."

"Tell us again about your theater group, Sweetie Belle?" asked Twilight. "I'm afraid I didn't understand it from the description in your letter. I'm trying to remember what you called it… A great 'caw' welling from the cavern of solipsistic tragedy?"

"Did I write that? I don't recall," Sweetie Belle replied, abashed by the scuffs of plastic cutlery which tinkered the air. "That's not a good definition—let me put it to you a bit differently. Let's say you have a line on a graph which goes in the same direction from left to right, which you can call a function. Depending on the shape of the line you can derive a formula for it, or give it an explicit operation. But you don't have to do that to understand that the line represents a type of order. You could write 'y equals x' and add operations to transpose the same line to different parts of the coordinate plane. So that, although you are manipulating the line in discrete ways, the line itself is, in effect, a black box."

"Yes, it gets quite interesting when you try to understand it from a cognitive point of view," Twilight said, sipping from a sweating salted lemonade. "Because, actually Sweetie Belle, what you have described is just the supervenient attribute of all mathematical symbolism—only, in the case of solving a function, we are asked to reformulate the argument, rather than proceed in an extrapolatory direction." She reflected for a moment. "Yes. That kind of work is at the intersection of the vector and the cipher, or black box, as you put it. But—I'm sorry. I'm still not sure what this has to do with theater."

Sweetie Belle shrugged. "Like Rarity said, words don't really do it justice. You have to see it first, I think."

Apple Bloom tapped her on the shoulder. "I get you. When I was a filly I used to love listening to my Uncle Turnover tell stories. You know how he was, Applejack—such a fiend with impressions! Gosh, he'd have me in stiches till it tuckered me out. I swear half the time I didn't even know who he was impersonating, but there was something about where it came from and how he was doing it that it was real enough for me."

"You knew before you knew," Cadence observed.

"Yup! That's exactly it! Heck, might have even been less funny if I did know. That's what you were talking about, right Sweetie Belle? Like, the audience is supposed to guess?"

"This is art, Apple Bloom, not geography," Sweetie Belle retorted.

"You know what's even better than monkey theater?" Apple Bloom took an ice cube from her drink and tossed it into Sweetie Belle's soup with a plop!

"Hey! Your sister made that lovingly, you wedge bot," Sweetie Belle said, recoiling.

"I think she's referring to an emphasized application of type or parody in the metanarrative presentation, Apple Bloom," Twilight interrupted, "which gets much nearer to my original question—though we would have to be clear on the difference between 'type' and 'parody', of course."

"One is order recognized before any observations are made, and the latter is order within the experience of order", said Rarity, munching an onion. "Indubitability is the common thread you are searching for. Yes, I think we've really nailed it, eh Sweetie Belle?"

The ladies assented with one or two puzzled expressions and went back to eating. They made a few expectant glances at Sweetie Belle, who gave no answers but made rings in her soup like she suspected the presence of a pre-Cambrian life form living within it.

"This is the most dubious conversation I've ever been a part of," said Applejack.

"You seem pretty bright, kid," Spitfire broke in. "Do you get good grades in school?"

"Me? Oh no, I'm terrible in school," Sweetie Belle answered, embarrassed again. "That's part of the reason I'm participating in this project. My parents wanted me to do something over the summer."

"So she went to Rolling Oats," Rainbow Dash added, "the party capital of Equestria."

Spitfire blinked. "Really? Heh, that's not what my parents would have done!"

"It has a good art scene," Cadence said.

Spitfire looked at her like she had been offered an unmarked beer. "Does it?"

"That's what they say," Rarity interdicted with pumpkin lips. "A bit parochial for my taste, though. Are these biscuits, Applejack?"

"'Parochial'… I don't think I've heard that before," Cadence said with curiosity. "'How do you mean, Rarity?"

Rarity took a corn biscuit, slathered it with a cut of warm butter, and doused the result in locally acquired strawberry gravy. "If you want to know my opinion, I'll give it to you. I think there is too much emphasis placed on a certain sort of subject art in places like Rolling Oats. Everywhere you look there is somepony playing a trumpet, somepony riding a streetcar. You either identify or you don't. It's the dregs, dear—like walking into a comic book shop," she concluded, dabbing her bottom lip with a napkin.

Cadence frowned a little. "I see. Actually, what you say is precisely why I enjoy visiting places like Rolling Oats, and I've never been on a streetcar."

"It is a novelty, certainly," Rarity sighed.

"What I mean is," Cadence continued, "I form a connection quickly. Shining Armor and I live in the Crystal Empire, which is rich with imperial history. The architecture there is much more opulent even than what one would find in Canterlot. But I've always felt that it gives the sense of something altered to convey a certain line of events far removed from the lives of ordinary, contemporary ponies. Shining and I have gotten into a few disputes about it, actually. I tell him I think it's too obtrusive—he gets so mad!" she said, whisking a smile at Twilight.

"Doesn't surprise me," she replied. "He's very passionate about certain things. And he's always had a penchant for detailed linework, and loves decoration, maybe even more than I do."

"It's all in amusement between us," Cadenced resumed. "But, in truth, the atmoshpere there would be stifling to me if I weren't so used to it. With Rolling Oats there's different energy. Rather than feeling like you're looking at something from far away, once there, you are a creative participant, part of the clay. You know you're at the source when you step onto the street—it's a real city."

"I agree with you about the Crystal Empire, dear," Rarity said, raising to her lips a glistening piece of watermelon she had found at an untended corner of the blanket. She bit down to the rind and, masticating with precipitous slobber, continued, "and I'm sorry to hear you've married into the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. I do love Shining, but I'd be excited to get out of the house, too, if I were in your place. I just don't understand the fascination with 'hypotheticals'. Color for the sake of itself—there's nothing truly eclectic or intellectually satisfying about it, though it may give the appearance of those things. Tacky is the word I'd use," she said, throwing out a watery red hoof to emphasize the point.

"That's a strange point of view," Cadence replied. "Maybe it resonates differently in my case. It's the everyday life of ponies seen without a frosty allegorical lens that grabs me—common things and common dilemmas, the intricacies baked into routine given a fresh expression, which we slip away from a little too easily in a haste for sophistication."

Rarity tongued a watermelon seed from behind her lip and spit it four feet onto the grass. "No, no. It doesn't have to do with 'sophistication'—it's about clarity. That's what raises civilization up, and I don't see any reason why we shouldn't go that far with it. Without clarity life is just a big pile of everything which calls itself 'unity'—I mean, Rolling Oats was founded by speculators, dear. In that respect Canterlot is the more fetching city. Her wending spires wend the mind as well, and lift the spirit, rather than drag it down to sticky traffic. Don't you agree?"

Rarity tossed a sullied napkin down and a few of the ladies began to whisper to each other, and the conversation seemed to come to a recess; but Sweetie Belle, brimming with eagerness, picked it up again: "Here's the thing about Rolling Oats—it's a different city at night than it is during the day. It shows different influences and betrays its kinship to Hayseed Swamp. There are little shops scattered around where you find colorful pony skulls made from baked mud, for example. That sense of the macabre is everywhere, like breath, and you don't notice it until you stop to pay attention."

"I remember being struck by how many mediums were in the old part of the city at night, last time I was there," said Cadence. "It definitely has a spooky vibe."

"Mhm. Some of those neighborhoods haven't changed much in the last few hundred years. I'm talking big walled complexes with willowing streetlamps and rope-drawn gates for carriages, that kind of thing. I was walking around one of those neighborhoods with a friend one night after a long rehearsal. She told me about a plague outbreak which was so bad that entire city blocks were quarantined from the community at large. Ponies dined and danced in masks. There were dead piled in the streets."

"How charming," said Rarity, crossing her legs.

"Well, it's a little weird," Sweetie Belle said, "but that's the most fascinating side of Rolling Oats to me. Sometimes I would visit the old churches by myself. The whole entryway into the city is surrounded by a cemetery. It's like a big drumhead beating the pulse of life and death."

Rarity smiled wanly. "Sweetie Belle, my love. Couldn't you have just joined the Wash-outs or something?"

"I was hoping this would help you contextualize black box theater," she huffed. "At least, as we interpret it—as I interpret it. The underworld element can't be separated from the party atmosphere that Rolling Oats is famous for, in my opinion. They're two parts of the same thing."

Rarity flipped her legs and said, "And what thing is that, sex? I saw your flag back in the chapel. You may do as you like, you know."

"Don't dismiss it, Rarity," Sweetie Belle replied with a lurch. "I know that look. It's not about sex—it's about mana!" She placed her hoof down to drive her point and accidentally tipped the bowl with watercress, spilling green soup onto the blanket.

"Don't worry about it, Sweetie Belle," Applejack said while some of the ladies giggled. She trotted over with a cloth napkin. "Here. This blanket was going to be washed, anyway."

Sweetie Belle accepted the napkin and took it upon herself to scrub the blotch. "Thank you. Sorry about that…"

Applejack discounted her apology and went to retrieve more cleaning materials from the house.

"So Rolling Oats has mana," Rarity said with wiggling hips. "What of it?"

"The point is," replied the Guest of Honor, "that not many ponies are willing to pay the price for that kind of life, the one which you have crudely characterized by 'sex'. You have to pay for things in life," she said, inspecting her work. "In Manehattan, you pay first. That is 'wise management'. But the spirit in Rolling Oats is different. There, ponies pay later—they have a courageous, ecstatic hoof in Hell. How about that! Do you think it stifles the fullness of life? its creativity? its sense of morality? I think that it brings something out in all of these that you can't find anywhere else."

Rarity leaned forward. "Well excuse me. And what is yourdefinition of 'Hell', little sister?"

"Oh my gosh, can we please move on to a different subject?" Rainbow Dash cried out impatiently. "Something everypony can participate in? I'm pretty sure Spitfire would like a word in now and then. Right, Ma'am?"

"By all means," Rarity chimed in, "how wonderful it is that you have made time to join us for Sweetie Belle's performance tonight, which we are all looking forward to!" She fidgeted a little and added, addressing the others around the blanket, "I think it is only polite that we allow Miss Spitfire to choose the topic of conversation."

The company readily agreed, but Spitfire shook her head. "Nah, nonsense! This is great. Conversations in the royal dining hall aren't nearly as entertaining. Despite your impression, Dash, I am capable of being a good listener, and a happy one at that. If I started telling you guys what to do this would become a busman's holiday," she said, closing her eyes. The ladies were silent as Spitfire seemed to plunge into a meditation.

Applejack began to go around the blanket collecting plates.

"I'm a little concerned to hear that you're not doing well at Friendship Academy, Sweetie Belle." Twilight resumed. She glanced at Rarity, who looked away. "I would even say I'm disappointed. You always seemed studious to me."

"Just a bad year," Apple Bloom said, coming to her defense. "She goes in and out. Scootaloo's the one you want to talk to about grades."

"Yeah, Scoots is hardcore about school," Sweetie Belle added.

"Really? How did that come about, Rainbow Dash?" asked Twilight. "I mean, I'm not judging…"

She shrugged. "When she wants something, she goes for it. And she wants to go to university."

"Canterlot University," said Apple Bloom.

Twilight began raking crumbs off the blanket with her hoof. "Goodness."

"She has the…" Cadence cut in, pointing to one of her wings. "Right?"

Rainbow Dash nodded. "She's tried out for a few things. That really wears her out, though, I think. We'll see what happens. What else can I do?"

"And what about you, Apple Bloom?" Sweetie Belle asked, giving her a pat on the head. "What do they do with ponies who are talented at being redheaded? You don't want to wind up in Hell, like me, after all."

"Do you feel that, Applejack?" she responded. "I think there's a breeze blowing through one of your willow trees. A whole lotta rustlin' but nothing to concern yourself about. What pretty, hapless things they are, only good for writin' sad poetry. Shame."

"You're so insufferably incorrigible, Apple Bloom," Sweetie Belle moaned. "A thorough miscreant. In twenty years you'll be selling inspirational napkins on the street in between singing and dancing about your promised place in the afterlife."

Sweetie Belle's remark, after lingering a moment, made Apple Bloom roll onto her side laughing and kicking her legs in the air. Sweetie Belle covered her face as the party looked on in amazement, but a snort wrenched itself out and belied her disapproval—she burst into giggling together with her friend rocking on the grass until both their faces were ruddy like children who had enjoyed a game of their own invention. When they settled down, Apple Bloom looked over and said, "I missed you so much this summer, Sweetie Belle."

Sweetie Belle tucked a hair behind her ear. "Ugh, I feel so dumb. I meant to bring you a gift. There was this great mug I saw in one of the painter's shops… I'm sorry."

"Apple Bloom's been thinking about joining the service," Applejack said, resuming her seat at the head of the table.

"She can tell the difference between a pigeon snare and a bear trap, you see," Sweetie Belle butted in. "And now she wants to turn it into a career. Truly a redheaded vocation!"

"And what's a vocation for a string bean?" said Apple Bloom. "Sleepin' all day?" She sat up and tweaked Sweetie Belle on the nose.

"Ow!" she yipped. "Idiot!"

"We have some military history in the Apple family," Applejack continued. "My grandad on my mother's side was in the cavalry. Says when he joined he was 'young and stupid'."

"Applejack, I'm very sorry to interrupt you," said Rarity, "but I need to use the little filly's room. And I'm afraid I've forgotten where it is, it's been so long since I've been in the manor."

Applejack laughed. "Heh, I see you dancin' over there. Sad for you, Rarity, the toilet in the house ain't workin' at the moment. You're going to have to settle for the ol' outhouse in the backyard. Don't mind it now. I know it ain't nothin' fancy, but it's clean, and ain't nothin' fancy about that kind of business, anyhow."

"Oh, dear!" Rarity started. "You don't mean that little box by the oak, do you?"

"I don't see no other ones, darlin'."

"Well, you know… it's not an emergency," Rarity went on. "I'd prefer to use my own facilities, anyway. Need to have the right conditions to perform my best. I will wait."

"Whatever suits you, I s'pose," Applejack replied.

"But keep us updated, Rarity," snickered Rainbow Dash.

"How long has the old outhouse been there, Applejack? Let's talk about that," said Sweetie Belle, making eyes at Rarity.

"How long…? Now, what kind of question is that, Sweetie Belle?" Applejack replied.

"A perfectly fair one," she answered. "After all, being here on the orchard and listening to you talk about the Apple family only makes me feel closer to you and to my best friend Apple Bloom," she said, putting an arm over her. "And I would like to know more about your heritage. How deep did they dig those pits, back in the day? Isn't it a marvel of engineering?"

"It's a hole," said Applejack.

"Do go on, Applejack!" Rainbow Dash said with an affected vowel. "Expound upon some sepia-tone reminiscences of your backyard baño. Recant the tales of dewy mornings and noontime races to that hallowed place, for the edification of the honored company."

"Actually Applejack, I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm a little curious myself," said Twilight. "Please tell us."

"Gosh, now I've for the bug, too!" Cadence said, joining in.

"Let's not force the issue," Rarity said. "Applejack knows what she knows, clearly. And no amount of history, however worthwhile of pursuit, will lure me into that old niche, not because it is beneath me—so to speak—but because, as you know, I am very precious when it comes to the natural movements of my body. Oh, how I envy you, who are born with such constitutions that if all the amenities of civilization were to wash away you would still be happy and self-reliant. But alas, things are what they are."

"Aw, it'll build character, then," said Apple Bloom.

"Now, now. If she doesn't want to use the outhouse she doesn't have to," said Twilight as laughter flitted amongst the ladies. "Some ponies are just partial to their own water closets."

"In any case," Rarity said, "It is about time that Sweetie Belle and I get going. You have a schedule to keep, dear, and it won't do you any good expending your energy wondering over the lavatory arrangements of your friends."

"You know, that reminds me of something, all this talk about cities and shitholes," said Spitfire, coming to herself. She turned to Sweetie Belle. "I have a story that might interest you. Consider it my contribution to the conversation."

"Of course," Sweetie Belle said anxiously, re-seating herself. "We're here, aren't we?"

"Indeed," grumbled Rarity.

"A special treat," Spitfire said, raising a glass, "because I like you, kid—you've got gumption. Now, I wouldn't tell this to just anyone, but we're in good company, here.

"On one of my last deployments to Saddle Arabia I met this guy named Sandstone Grizzle. I had heard about Sandstone by way of talk amongst the privates, but always through indiscretion, something uttered by a naif or some grunt who was dealing with a little too much stress. He had a reputation with the young ponies as a fixer for hashish and certain potent varieties of alcohol, which were and are suppressed in that region. More than this, though, he apparently belonged to a saintly order of some kind. I thought they were making it up—just a morsel of post-duty wheedling between rookies. But then one night one of them stumbled into the local grog shop looking terrified. He had wanted a dance with the Green Fairy and, doggonit, Sandstone was going to make him dance! He had taken part in some elaborate ritual with runes, chanting, animal sacrifice. At this point my incredulity turned to concern for the cadets. I knew the sight of this boy would be enough to ward some of them off, but just as surely, would entice others to seek out the wizard as an escape from duty and perhaps from life. I wanted to track this guy down, so I extracted from the spooked private just where and how I could meet him.

"A few days later I turn up at a rather antique-looking doorstep which leads me down into a small basement flat. The guy—Sandstone—hears me and waves me in from behind a curtain. He's red like an old sailor and he has the sharp features of a Saddle Arabian, a promontory chin, and these enormous arched eyebrows that waggle whenever he talks about anything in earnest, which is all the time. I almost couldn't look away from those damned eyebrows!" she said, stifling a chuckle. "He nods at my arrival at his home, or shop, or apothecary, whatever it is, and asks me in the most nonchalant way if I'm 'ready', since the weather today might affect my sinuses. Like I'm going to the dentist! He takes me into a room filled with colored stone bowls arranged in some kind of figure around a clearing on the floor. The room itself has plain walls and a hearth like you would expect in a colonial, but a few religious portraits here and there. He then asks me to lay down in the middle of this arrangement of bowls, which from the floor look like a little sierra valley of pink and green. Cute. Then he asks me to close my eyes, and to speak up if I begin to feel sick, and I've got my switchblade and I'm curious as hell to see where this is going.

"I'm lying there, eyes closed, stroking the knife in my pocket, thinking about this guy's eyebrows. It's silent for a few moments. Then, loud as the sun, he begins to chant in long tones over my head in a language which is unfamiliar yet which seems just as much made for me as ancient sweet bread.

"His voice softens, and something seems to rise up from the floor—an emanation. I realize, he is playing music from the stone bowls! I'd never heard such a thing." Spitfire stopped in her story and wet the outside edge of one of the glasses which had been used to serve lemonade to the picnic-goers. She ran her hoof in circles over the top and a ringing tone became perceptible against the breeze and the warbling of a house wren in a distant thicket. "Imagine this," she said, "but resonating your whole body. My thoughts—or I should say, my thinking—lit up like a particle of glass in a chromatic gamut. Suddenly it was like I was looking at something on a screen, a vision not my own of a mind at work in a sequence of colors and images. I saw a great earthen stronghold suspended in the air dissolve into a thousand marbles, then reconstituted into a new city as naturally as waves recede from the shore.

"I'm not sure how long the visions lasted," she continued. "There was still daylight when I sat up, but it felt like it might have been a different month. I exchanged a few words with Sandstone—we didn't need to say much—one thing led to another, and he offered to take me to a remote location toward Mesoponytamia where the Royal State of Saddle Arabia was conducting an ongoing excavation of some kind. He explained to me that they were primarily interested in sequestering the site for historical and political reasons and were not fully aware of its archaeological significance, but whatever holy group his was connected with appreciated it to be something that would change the chronology. I decide I can't resist such an offer, dancing eyebrows or not, and make plans to trek out with him on my next day off."

"It sounds like a wonderful adventure!" said Rarity, bobbing. "It's a pity we have to be on our way."

"Wait," said Spitfire. "I've almost gotten to the good part. We set out before sunrise on the appointed date in an old jalopy he had, or maybe it belonged to the guy who was driving it—a big colt in a habit like Sandstone's. I didn't ask. It was a long, silent ride through the Saddle Arabian desert. It becomes steppe land as you go north from the peninsula, and I couldn't help but wonder whether Sandstone's conclave was hiding out somewhere in those conchoidal recesses along the far-off ridges we were passing through. At last some kind of mound appeared on the horizon. At first, I took it to be a natural formation, perhaps a low-lying plateau. But as we approached, I noticed that it was quasi-conical in shape, like a half-baked pyramid. By the angle of the sun I could make out irregular patterns on the slope. They appeared to be old terraces of rectangular stone which became more numerous at higher elevations on the mound.

"Sandstone caught me looking in his direction. He laughed with his big chin out, brandishing his big teeth and those big arched eyebrows. I smiled a little smile at him. I was still piecing it all together. The drugs, the sacred order—this pony was a wanderer among wanderers in a strange land, and like some sort of mad artificer he had figured out a way to make all of it work for him. He gave me a knock on the shoulder, as though to say, 'How about the ruins of a lost city—also, would you care for some gum? Maybe a spritz?' He had that way about him."

"And what about the lost city?" asked Twilight. "You said there were houses built into the sheer cliffs of a plateau? That must have been an extraordinary sight! I've never heard of such a thing in that part of Equestria."

"The thing was a massive archaeological tell," Spitfire replied. "It rose over four-hundred feet in the air and covered a little over ten acres, by my reckoning. It was astonishing—not just for being so huge, but for its monolithicity. It comprised a vast stratigraphy: on the bottommost horizon there was a preponderance of sediments, bones, and stone walls. Then you begin to encounter idols, pottery, beveled vases, articulated weaponry, and so on, as you go up. Toward the top you can see the remnants of monuments and deserted ramparts. There was something about it—I've never seen civilization condensed in such a way. It's like how in a biology classroom you might be asked to dissect owl droppings to learn about the owl."

"An epochal shit!" said Rainbow Dash, filled with delight.

"A cloacal obsession, if you ask me," Twilight rebutted.

"And Rolling Oats made you think of that?" asked Sweetie Belle.

"There will be plenty of time for romancing ruins later," Rarity said, leaping up and aiding her sister to her hooves by the scruff. She added cheerfully, "Good to see you all!" and stole over to the opposite end of the blanket where Applejack was seated. She walked up close and took her chin, gently bringing the right cheek against her own left and making the sound of a kiss, then alternating sides. "Love, can we talk later? Got to keep things moving, you know. Busy day. That's all. We should see each other more often," she said, retreating back across the lawn. "You should really come to Manehattan some time. Cadence, I'd swear you were body-swapped again, you're looking so good!" And still further distant: "What a pleasure it has been!"

"Uh… Bye!" said Sweetie Belle. "I mean… See you tonight!" She and Rarity made quickly across the barnyard and out of sight in a dusty wake.

Rainbow Dash smirked. "I have a feeling Rarity's going to be romancing some ruins sooner than she'd like us to believe."

"Not saintly gray," said Cadence with poetic quaver, "like many a minster fane, that crowns the hill or sanctifies the plain: But rosy-red, as if the blush of dawn which first beheld them were not yet withdrawn…"

And all present, except for Applejack, broke into laughter the way a flame spreads along tiny paper boats.