Serenade for Strings: 2

>Another cup of coffee later you settle your bill and take off across the grass of the quad with Lyra in tow.
>Rising from the buildings ahead of you is a tall tower of white stone roofed with gleaming copper.
>Near the top the sky is busy with doves as they come and go through three rows of small arched portals in the tower’s wall, filling the air with feathers and the muted racket of their cooing cries.
“I need to make a stop,” you say, nodding at the tower.
>”Oh, okay, I guess we have time,” Lyra says, fixing you with a curious eye.
“Rearranging my plans for this evening,” you say in reply to her unspoken question.
>“You actually had plans? I assumed that was a lie.”
“…yeah, it would have been, if it hadn’t happened to be true.”
>“You gave them up easily enough though. Were you glad for the excuse, or what?”
“You kidding? I’ve got a date with royalty.”
>“Royalty…? Oh. Right. Your sponsor.” She gives you a worried sidelong look. “Will Princess Mi Amore Cadenza really be all right with you cancelling at the last minute like that?”
>You shrug.
“Cadence isn’t known for her temper or anything.”
>“Errr… right. But I’m still not sure you should be pushing your luck…”
“Look, she sponsors me to study music. And I need to reschedule with her, because of music. I’m sure she’ll understand. It’s not like we ever talk about anything important anyway, just shoot the shit. I reckon she only sets up these ‘progress meetings’ because she wants to get into my pants but doesn’t know how to ask. She’s hoping I’ll make a move.”
>“…riiiiight. The most marriageable mare in the kingdom – whose special talent is love, for pony’s sake – has an awkward school-filly crush on you. Now it all makes sense.”
“Final piece of the puzzle, right? So yeah, I’ll be back in a minute.”
>You head inside and pen a quick message on one of the slips of paper provided at the counter. You seal it into a small metal tube, label the tube with Cadence’s full name and title, and hand the tube over the desk to the smiling clerk along with a bit.
>“Oh my, a message for the princess?”
“Yeah. Urgent booty call. Give it to your best pigeon.”
>You flick the blinking mare another bit and walk out.

>Lit class drags by in a hungover haze.
>The classroom’s stuffy and your chair digs into your ass and the back of your legs like a medieval torture instrument.
>You’re pretty sure you haven’t read any of the books you were supposed to be talking about today – at least not recently.
>The professor’s voice is like a hypnotist’s drone. You can’t even make out individual words, just a steady monotonous stream that washes away conscious thought.
>You’re jolted from your dozing by a hoof in the ribs, and turn with a snort to glare at Lyra.
>She rolls her eyes and motions to the other two ponies seated at the table with you.
>That brown stallion Felix from last night, and a lime green mare you don’t know by name.
>The professor has stopped talking and there’s a hum of conversation from other groups of ponies around the classroom, so you guess you must be supposed to discuss something.
>“So. Borgorse. What stories were you guys assigned?” Lyra prompts. “I did ‘The Library of Babel’ and ‘Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius’.”
>The other mare starts to reply and you tune out, punching Felix in the shoulder instead.
“‘Sup man. How you feeling?”
>“Heh. Been better.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. Looked like you were doing all right with that mare when I left, though, huh?”
>“Oh, hey, a gentlecolt doesn’t kiss and tell…” he smirks at you.
“Right, right, say no more.”
>“… did you guys read anything, or what?” Lyra interrupts.
“…what do you think?”
>“Err, yeah, I did,” Felix says. “’The Garden of Forking Paths’ and ‘The Circular Ruins’.
“Shit, way to make me look bad, man…”
>“Like you need any help doing that to yourself,” Lyra snarks. “So those of us who actually did the reading… umm… common themes? I think the two I read both had quite a lot to say about the nature of meaning in a written text…”
>You space out of the discussion again and your attention wanders to a table on the far side of the room where Octavia sits in earnest discussion with two other ponies.

>You recognise one of them, a willowy white-and-pink unicorn.
>Fleur de Lis. Part-time model, scion of one of Canterlot’s wealthiest and best-connected families, probably the most lusted-after mare on the whole campus.
>The kind of mare who spreads desire around her everywhere she goes like the scent of a flower, even without trying - and Fleur couldn’t be accused of not trying. Her carefully groomed mane and tail, her bearing and grace of movement, her soft voice, the way she bats her eyelids – everything about her is polished and honed into a work of art.
>Or a weapon.
>Of course you’re susceptible to such an assault, and you’ve spent your fair share of time dwelling on the things you’d like to do to her.
>Right now, though, she’s not the sole focus of your attention.
>The way that Octavia briefly meets Fleur’s eyes before dropping her gaze modestly to the table again as they talk…
>The way she bites her lower lip as she thinks something through…
>The way that the sun comes through a skylight above her and turns a few stray strands of her dark mane into burnished copper…
>Well, there’s something about that mare.
>Maybe not everyone would agree, but you don’t think she measures up too badly to the exquisite unicorn beside her.
>You’re lost in such idle speculation when the grinding progress of the class is interrupted by a sharp knock at the classroom door.
>”Come in,” the professor calls.
>A liveried messenger pegasus stands in the doorway bearing a sealed letter.
>“Princess Mi Amore Cadenza sends her greetings, and apologies for the interruption. I have a message for Anonymous.”
>A couple of dozen pairs of eyes turn to you at once.
>You give an exaggerated shrug and a lopsided grin as you stand up and go to take the sealed scroll.
>The messenger pony hands it over with a respectful nod and turns to go, leaving you to take your seat again.
>The professor clears his throat.
>“Well, hmm, shall we continue…?”

>“I take it back, the two of you are made for each other,” Lyra says as the two of you weave your way through the crowd of ponies that streams through the corridors leading out of the building. “Having her messenger just barge in and interrupt class like that... she’s enabling your attention seeking.”
“Well apparently she wants to see me right now for lunch. So I’ll inform the princess of your displeasure. Or maybe just pass on your matchmaking recommendation.”
>“Yeah, sure, go ahead. Not like she knows who I am anyway.”
>You cough into your fist with an exaggerated pantomime gesture and she shoots you a worried glare.
>“What?”
“Well sure she does. We were talking about you just the other week.”
>“What?!”
“Yeah, she said something about ‘that mare you’re friendly with, looks like a mint cake, plays the harp, good with her tongue,’ and so-”
>“WHAT.”
“Yeah, I know. I tried to explain we weren’t really friends, you just liked to hang around and bitch at me, but-”
>“…and the bit about my tongue?”
>You shrug.
“I guess word gets around.”
>“You’re so full of shit.”
“Okay, well, I guess you don’t want to hear about how she liked your playing, then…”
>“She hasn’t heard me play! I’d know if she attended anything I was playing at.”
“You sure? Maybe she doesn’t always like to be recognised when she’s unwinding…”
>“You’re telling me the princess disguises herself and prowls the city’s nightspots incognito?”
“I’m not telling you anything, it’d be highly inappropriate of me to reveal intimate details of a Royal’s private life like that…”
>“Pffft. Yeah, I bet she puts on a catsuit and fights crime too.”
“I didn’t say that. Nobody said that. You’re conjecturing. I refuse to comment on these wild rumours that Cadence is the Batmare.”
>“Get out of here, you ass.”
“…yeah, I’m gonna be late if I don’t run. Catch you later.”
>You tousle her mane and take off down the busy thoroughfare, looking for a cab.

>Twenty minutes later you step down from a carriage outside the imposing art deco façade of the Ritz-Colton hotel, all black marble and gold leaf.
>You pay the cab-ponies and mount the shallow flight of steps leading up to the entrance.
>The doorponies eye you disapprovingly but don’t challenge you as you pass through into the spacious lobby.
>The black-and-gold colour scheme continues inside, given a luxurious touch by rich red carpeting and diamond chandeliers.
>Off to the right of the lobby the restaurant is clearly visible through glass doors and red curtains, signposted by the small queue of ponies waiting for the maître d’s attention.
>You go to join them.
>As far as attracting attention goes, you have some natural advantages in this scenario.
>The maître d’ addresses you as soon as he has returned to his station, looking you up and down from your tousled hair to your grubby sneakers with a practiced expression of blank condescension.
>“I’m sorry, sir,” he says. “We require certain standards of presentation and deportment from our guests. We won’t be able to serve you.”
“Oh.”
>You scratch your chin.
“Okay, that’s too bad. Would you mind letting the princess know?”
>“…. I’m sorry?”
“Princess Mi Amore Cadenza. She’s already been seated, I guess? She’s expecting me, so, if you wouldn’t mind, send her my regrets and explain why I can’t join her.”
>The grey stallion blanches a little.
>“Well, now, hmm. Wait here for a moment won’t you please? I’ll be right back.”
>He hustles off toward the rear of the restaurant where the seating area is broken up by thick pillars and more red curtains to create a more intimate and private space.
>He’s back in less than a minute, a little flustered.
“Mr. Anonymous?” He motions you to follow him as he simpers over his shoulder. “Pardon my earlier indiscretion, I was quite mistaken, your appearance is - but of course! - quite elegant and dashing, I am merely unaccustomed to the fashions of your species, a most regrettable faux pas of cultural insensitivity on my part for which, naturally, I apologise unreservedly.”
>You round a pillar and find yourself face to face with Princess Cadence as your suddenly obsequious guide bows and motions you to take a seat before backing away, still muttering apologies.

>The pink alicorn sits on a large velvet cushion across the table. Her mane tumbles about her face in tresses of violet, rose, and lemon, and her purple eyes meet yours as she smiles a welcome.
>As flippant as you may be about your royal sponsor in her absence, you always find it hard to stay blasé in the face of her full charm offensive.
>You give her a respectful nod as you take your seat.
>“Hello, Anonymous. I’m glad you could make it on such short notice.”
“Hi, Cadence.”
>You’re conscious of having to force yourself a little to be so off-hand and informal with the princess – it doesn’t come naturally. She’s never showed any signs of minding, though.
>“A glass of wine? Or do you need a clear head for your commitments later on?”
>You feel like that might be a trap, but you also feel like if you go out of your way to avoid it then you’ve already lost.
“Nah. I mean, yeah. I’ll have a glass. Thanks.”
 >She smiles sweetly at you as her magic lifts the bottle on the table and fills a glass.
>“Last year’s Picpoul de Ponet. The Prench ambassador wouldn’t stop singing its praises to me, so when I saw it on the wine list here I thought we’d have to try it.”
>You take a sip. Clean and flinty, with a refreshing citrus edge.
“Um. It’s good.”
>She nods. “Well, what shall we drink to? The cultivation of the arts? Or is that too pretentious of me?”
>You shrug, and immediately begin mentally berating yourself for the gauche response.
>She gives a musical little laugh and raises her glass.
>“Apologies, the exact significance of that eloquent gesture escapes me. Shall I just assume that it is something along the lines of-” she puts on a ridiculous baritone, waving her free hoof in the air in grandiose flourishes - “‘nay, gentle Princess, by no means art thou pretentious. Eschew false modesty, for thy benevolence is matched only by thy beauty’… something like that?”

>You give a forced chuckle, feeling like a sulky, awkward lump. Heat starts to rise in your cheeks. Your eyes slip away from hers like the wrong ends of two magnets as you clink glasses and drink.
>The trouble is that you can’t return her flirtiness. She pays for your education, and she’s a fucking princess.
>You’re supposed to be bowing and calling her ‘your highness’ or something – but you decided long ago you weren’t going down that route.
>Start doing that, and she’ll own you. Goodbye independence, goodbye freewheeling life of hedonism, hello to a future as her laced-up toadying court musician.
>There must be a line somewhere between the extremes of cringing obeisance and total disregard – a line that you should be walking. But you don’t feel like Cadence makes it easy for you in your efforts to find that line.
>“So what exactly was it that came up for this evening?” she asks with mock gravitas. “Something important enough to justify wreaking havoc on a princess’s schedule, apparently…?”
>She gives you a teasing smile.
>You bite back the ‘sorry’ that tries to form on your lips.
“Yeahhhh… my quartet wanted to practice, they were pretty set on it. We’ve got a big recital coming up in like a week and I guess they’re all stressing.”
>“Hmm, but not you?” She blinks big purple eyes at you.
“Uh, nah. Well. I’m a pretty laid-back guy, you know…”
>“Ah, so you don’t take your music seriously?”
>You cough.
“Seriously enough to ‘wreak havoc upon a princess’s schedule’…”
>“Touché. But, really, I’m glad that you felt able to rearrange things with me. I’m glad that you indulge me by agreeing to these catch-up meetings now and then, but I wouldn’t ever want them to get in the way of your studies.”
“Right…”

>Menus arrive and you begin perusing them. Cadence coos over hers, reading out items that catch her eye.
>“Artichoke Velouté with truffle… is that a kind of soup, do you suppose?”
>You have no idea how she expects you to know that if she doesn’t.
 >Everything on here looks intimidatingly fancy, but on the bright side there’s plenty of fish and even the odd meat dish for the hotel’s more adventurous or non-equine guests.
>“Terrine of Goose Liver with Sauternes and Peaches… goose liver. Bleh. Really?”
“Goose liver is tasty.”
>She sticks out her tongue in a distinctly un-regal gesture of disgust.
>“I can’t understand why you’d want to eat something’s innards. Even with sauternes and peaches.”
“I wouldn’t. I don’t even know what sauternes are.”
>“Oh, they’re a kind of fruit, but they’re only good if they’re ripe and very fresh. And you have to be careful because they have dozens of tiny little pips which are very bitter.”
>You have no idea what her game is here, but her eyes are twinkling with mischief.
>“So you should ask the waiter whether the sauternes are freshly picked and thoroughly seeded.”
“I… errr… I probably won’t do that.”
>She pouts.
>“Spoilsport.”
>You eventually opt for the Smoked Eel with Horseradish and Oscietra Caviar to start, followed by Loin of Lamb with Roast Pepper and Potato Fondant.
>At least you know what all of those words mean – well, except for ‘oscietra’, which doesn’t seem important. And you’d never have paired the words ‘potato’ and ‘fondant’ in your mind, but you’re sure these guys know what they’re doing.
>Cadence orders the Fire-Roasted Asparagus with Truffle Baby Tomato Salad, followed by Sea Bass en Croute with Sauce Mireille.

>“So this recital next week,” Cadence says as she selects a spear of asparagus from her plate. “Is it public?”
“Yeah. Sort of. It’ll be in the union building I guess. Audience’ll mostly just be students.”
>“But it is open to the general public?”
>You don’t like where this is going.
“…yeah…”
>“Mmm.” She takes a dainty bite and chews thoughtfully. “So I could come?”
“I, err, I don’t think they’re really set up for royalty.”
>She waves a dismissive hoof.
>“That’s all right, I wouldn’t want all that pomp and fuss anyway. Maybe I’ll come in disguise.”
>This must be some sort of horrible karmic retribution for fucking with Lyra earlier.
“That doesn’t sound very safe,” you say hesitantly, squirming a little in your seat.
>She holds your eye for a moment before grinning.
>“I’m teasing,” she says gently. “Of course I wouldn’t put you on the spot like that. I’m sure I’ll have the chance to hear you play in due time.”
“Ha. Haha. Yeah.”
>You smother a piece of eel in creamy horseradish and put it in your mouth, hardly tasting it until the pungency of the horseradish suddenly hits you and your eyes start to water.
>You painfully swallow the half-chewed mouthful and take an emergency gulp of wine to stop yourself from choking.
>When you lower your glass Cadence is watching you with a spear of asparagus forgotten halfway to her mouth, biting her lower lip as she tries not to laugh.
>“Anonymous. Your table manners are… idiosyncratic.”
>You cough, not trusting yourself to speak as your throat threatens to reject everything you just crammed down it in the space of seconds.
>“You make a refreshing dining companion for one used to the rigours of castle etiquette.”
>She bursts out in a peal of laughter at last, unable to hold it in, as you slowly and deliberately plant a palm over your face.
>“Oh dear… Anonymous, I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to torment you like this. It’s…” she clears her throat and carefully sets her face in a neutral expression, although laughter still dances in her eyes. “It’s entirely unbefitting for a pony of my rank. Please accept my apologies.”
“Of course…”

>Your lamb is a little overdone when it arrives, but it’s still amazing to eat some actual meat. The only places around campus that cater to carnivores are a couple of seedy gryphon-run joints hawking rat kebabs and you’ve never yet been drunk enough to set foot in one.
>More than once you catch Cadence watching you with a sort of morbid curiosity as you munch on the delicious dead animal, but she doesn’t say anything about it. She keeps to a little light chatter about music and palace rumours as you both eat.
>Her conversational coup de grace, when it comes, catches you completely flatfooted.
>“Tell me,” she says as the plates are being cleared away. “Are you seeing anypony?”
>Fuck. Stall for time.
“…huh?”
>“Romantically, I mean.”
>She looks into your eyes, her gaze smouldering with violet intensity.
>You quickly look downwards, searching for words.
>Any words.
>“Not that I’m hitting on you, or anything,” she giggles.
>You breathe again.
>“Call it friendly concern, or prying curiosity. Is there somepony special in your life?”
“Nah. No one special.”
>“Do you even see ponies that way?” she asks. “I mean, are you physically attracted to mares?”
>You raise your eyes toward the ceiling in silent supplication, wondering how you come to find yourself in yet another new and exciting conversational hell.
“Um.”
>“You can be honest.”
“Yes. Okay. Yes. I mean, I’ve been in Equestria for years now. It was weird to me at first, but I came round to the idea of dating ponies.”
>“Hmmm.” She smiles. “I’m glad. No one should have to live with no hope of love.”
“…right.”
>“But nobody special…? Sowing your wild oats, is that it?”
>She peers at you with a sudden cold frown.
>“Breaking hearts?”

>Panic. She’s like a fucking royal inquisitor of love or something.
“Um. Nah. I mean-”
>She laughs as her features relax into an easy smile once more.
>“Relax. It’s none of my business. I’m sure you’ll settle down when the right mare comes along. I just… well, I want to know that you’re doing okay. That you’re happy.”
“Sure I am.”
>“Good.” She gives a genuine smile, full of warmth. “Well then. I’ve taken up enough of your time, and I’m sure that all manner of drudgery awaits my urgent attention back at the castle. Shall we?”
“Yeah, okay. Um. The bill?”
>“Oh, don’t worry about that, it all goes on account.”
>The princess pulls you into a brief hug as you take your leave on the sidewalk outside.
>“Be well,” she says. “We’ll catch up again in a few weeks.”
“Right. Thanks for lunch. Bye, Cadence.”
>She climbs into her waiting carriage, pausing on the threshold to half-turn and give you a wave.
>Her team of royal guards bear her swiftly away, leaving you to light up a cigarette and try to recover from the onslaught.
>You decide to walk back to campus. There’s no real rush, and you could use some time to yourself.

>The walk does help to clear your head a bit, although you still can’t get your mind off of Cadence or stop it from replaying her gestures or snatches of conversation, picking them apart with forensic intensity.
>Every time you think you’ve got her figured out, she finds some new way to get under your skin.
>Sometimes you wish that she’d just minded her own damn business that night last year, and never interfered with you at all.
>College is fun and all, but you never asked for it. You were happy enough as a bartender, a construction worker, a busker, or any of the other dozen things you’ve turned your hand to since pitching up in this place.
>What gave her the right, anyway, to come and fuck with your life like this?
>And what does she expect back?
>What does she WANT from you?
>Exhaustion catches up with you, and by the time you get back to your dorm you feel like a sweaty, run-down wreck.
>It seems like you may as well write off the rest of the afternoon and put your hopes on feeling a little less shitty in time for your rehearsal.
>You set your alarm and sprawl out on your bed to drift slowly into a restless doze, your brain still whirring fruitlessly.

>You awaken before your alarm goes off and lie still a while, gazing up at the grubby ceiling.
>Your room is in the half-light of dusk, and except for the slam of a door somewhere off down the corridor all is quiet and still.
>The breeze from your open window is chilly, and eventually the cold spurs you to kick off the blankets and get to your feet.
>A glance at your clock tells you that you still have more than an hour before you’re due to practice.
>You take a quick shower and then get dressed again, feeling clear-headed and suddenly restless.
>You’re not hungry and you don’t feel like just hanging about your room until it’s time to go.
>May as well just head over there now and put in a little practice time by yourself.
>Maybe it’ll help to calm the storm of bitching from Symphony and Concerto if they find you there and practicing before them.
>You pull on a warm sweater and your jacket, grab your violin case and head out into the cold evening.
>The sun is just sinking past the horizon, turning the skyline into a shadow-play of black silhouettes against the deepening sea blue in the west.
>It’s about a twenty minute walk to the music department across the parkland that makes up the majority of the campus.
>The paths are busy with ponies coming back from class or heading out for the evening.
>You exchange a nod or a brief greeting here and there with ponies you know, but none of them stop to chat. Maybe they’ve picked up on your solitary mood.

>Arriving at reception to pick up the key for your practice room, it turns out that you’ve been too punctual. The ponies who had the room booked before you are still using it.
>With nothing much else to do, you head up to the music department’s abandoned common room and get yourself a cup of bitter black dishwater from the coffee machine.
>You sip it as you stand gazing out of the window into the darkness where the trees lean and sway in the wind and the figures of ponies drift between pools of light on the path.
>Absorbed in the view and your own thoughts, you don’t realise you have company until you happen to notice the reflection in the mirror of a pony about ten feet away.
>A pretty grey mare with a cello case.
>Octavia stands watching you, hesitant, apparently unsure whether to greet you or slink away before you notice her.
>You wait, watching her watching you.
>Eventually her eyes find yours in the window’s reflection and you give her a wry smile even as she looks hurriedly away.
>“Um. Hi.”
“Evening. How long have you been there?”
>“Not very long. You looked so spaced out, I wasn’t sure whether to disturb you.”
“Yeah, I pretty much was. That’s the kind of intense zen trance I have to enter to prepare myself to put up with Symphony and Concerto’s company.”
>“Huh.”
>It’s hard to tell whether that was a sound of sympathy, amusement, or disapproval.
>Her expression gives no clues as she keeps her eyes down and her dark mane obscures half her face.
“… are you guys friends, or what?” you say, probing a little.
>“Not really.”
>You wait for any advance on that, but it doesn’t come.
“I appreciate you not piling in on me earlier.”
>“Mm.”
“I mean I get why those guys were pissed off with me, I do, but really, why blow everything up so obnoxiously like that?”

>She gives an exasperated sigh and looks you in the eye for the first time.
>”I’d really rather not talk about all that,” she says flatly.
“…huh. So you take their side?”
>”I don’t take anypony’s side. This isn’t a game, or a battle. We’re playing together.”
“And you think blackmail is conducive to that…?”
>“No. But neither is missing a rehearsal because you’re too hungover to function.”
“I resent that…”
>“I resent it as well, I assure you.”
“Oh, fine, be like that.”
>“I… really don’t intend to be like anything,” she says, dropping her eyes from yours again. “As I said, I’d prefer not to discuss it at all.”
“Okay, okay.”
>You drain your coffee cup of its cold, weak dregs and throw it into the bin.
>It doesn’t seem like conversation with Octavia is going to be a productive endeavour, and after all you came here early to practice. You don’t see any reason not to do just that, even if there’s no practice room available.
>After all, the building is pretty much deserted except for ponies using the practice rooms, and those are soundproofed. So who’s going to object?
>You pull your violin out of its case and begin tuning it. You give all your attention to the familiar task, enjoying the feeling of the old wood beneath your fingertips and the search for the perfect balance of tension between each carved peg and the string that it governs.
>A part of your brain is conscious of Octavia’s eyes on you, but you keep your focus on what you’re doing.
>Once you’re in tune you take out the cake of rosin from your case and rub it in to the coarse hair of your bow, releasing its sweet, bitter piny smell.

>You begin to play, starting slowly with a warm up.
>Your fingers work confidently over the neck, ascending through a Dorian scale with one long smooth stroke of your bow for each of the four octaves.
>You switch your fingering on the way back down, retracing the same pattern but testing your fingers in new ways to reassure yourself of their easy mastery over the neck.
>You haven’t been practicing as much as you should, recently, but you don’t feel rusty.
>It’s more like coming back to a lover after a few days apart. Rediscovering the way she responds to your touch, finding the connection between the two of you only heightened and given an edge of intensity by the period of absence.
>You continue through a few more scales, up through Ionian and down through Locrian in staccato, up through Mixolydian and down through Phrygian pizzicato, plucking the strings rather than bowing them.
>You pause for a moment and see that Octavia has taken her cello from its case.
>You catch her eye and play an A, waiting while she tunes to it.
>She handles her instrument with easy grace and obvious skill, her hooves manipulating the tuning pegs with all the miraculous fine dexterity that you’ve long observed in ponies but never quite stopped wondering at.
>There’s something nice about just watching her tune up.
>She hasn’t taken out any sheet music, which leaves an open question as to what she has in mind. If she’s hoping to practice Ravel’s Quartet in F Major, the piece you’re playing next week, then she’s going to be exceedingly disappointed if she expects you to be able to carry your part without sight-reading.
>If she’s not planning on that, you don’t really know what to expect. Nothing to do but wait and see.

>A nod passes between you once she’s ready, and then, leaving her bow aside, she begins picking out a bass line.
>She focuses on the rhythm, setting a lurching, syncopated tempo punctuated by the percussion of her strings on the wood as she plucks them like a jazz bassist.
>The mood she’s setting is tense and dramatic: a pursuit through rain-slicked city streets, or a knife fight in a smoky bar.
>You may not have known what to expect, but you definitely weren’t expecting anything like this.
>She’s keeping it simple and repetitive, an obvious invitation for you to drop something fancier over the top.
>Well, you don’t need to be asked twice.
>You cut in with a high, thin wail of harmonics which drifts slowly into key before resolving itself into a melody that pirouettes around Octavia’s rhythm with playful flourishes, sometimes lagging a little behind or racing on ahead before returning again to follow the cello’s lead.
>Now that she’s confident you’ve got a basis to work from, Octavia begins to be a bit more adventurous with her own playing, adding grace notes to the simple bass line she has been laying down.
>You settle into a more repetitive and conservative pattern yourself, giving her some space to experiment more freely without fear of clashing with something you’re doing.
>She makes good use of the opportunity, bringing her bow to bear now to blur one descending passage into a legato dive before picking her way up the neck again with an even more pronounced percussive effect than before, even tapping with her hoof on the body of the cello to punctuate some of the notes.
>Your playing dissolves momentarily into an ethereal shimmer of harmonics to highlight the effect of Octavia’s downward swoop before cutting back in with a strong driving hook, urging the tempo up.
>Octavia responds instantly, dropping the pizzicato and bowing an elegant counterpoint to your playing that recalls shades of the bass line she started with.

>If it started as a knife fight in a smoky bar, what it’s developing into now must be something like a deadly ballet in torrential rain at a carnival.
>You don’t know what Octavia’s musical points of reference are for the genre you’re playing in but, for yourself, you’re drawing on the style of Eastern European folk music. All that wild ecstatic bitter-sweetness, that reckless abandonment, that’s what you’re trying to channel.
>This is music for gypsy honour-feuds and doomed moonlight trysts.
>Neither of you is leading nor following any more, neither of you making any allowances. You weave around each other’s playing, experimenting as you go, not doubting any more that the other will find a way to work with what you’re doing and add to it.
>Sometimes something doesn’t quite work, an unexpected tension between your instruments or a divergence in tempo, but each time the two of you find a way to take the unplanned dissonance and resolve it or work with the clash, amplifying and manipulating it into something exciting.
>It’s been a really long time since you played like this.
>It takes you back to the festival scene when you were fifteen or sixteen, sitting down with anybody who’d give you a beer or pass you their joint and jamming late into the night.
>Of course, back then, you never played with anybody this good.
>There’s something amazing about knowing that whatever you do, wherever the music takes you, Octavia will keep up. Not only that, but she’ll keep feeding back and giving you more and more to work with.

>You couldn’t really hazard a guess at how long you’ve been playing for when Symphony and Concerto make their entrance to the common room.
>It might have been ten minutes, or a hundred years.
>You could chart the passage, though, by all the places you and Octavia passed through in your musical wanderings.
>From Gershwin-style jazz through czarda through Highland reel into something like a bourrée and back to jazz, more subdued and melancholic this time, shading into blues.
>The appearance of the other half of your quartet breaks the spell instantly.
>You slip, losing the thread of the music, and Octavia looks at you, half-questioning, half-accusatory, even as she tries in vain to keep going.
>You lower your violin from your shoulder, giving an awkward cough and motioning behind her.
>She stops playing, turns to look and gives a hesitant wave as a faint blush steals over her cheeks. The pale olive mare and brown stallion stand regarding the two of you uncertainly.
>There’s a strange charge in the air, and they obviously feel it too.
“…evening,” you say, rising to your feet and running a hand through your hair after swapping your bow into the same hand as your violin.
>“Yeah, hi,” Symphony says after a moment. “Getting an early start on practice, huh?”
“Right.”
>“Well. Well, good. I’m glad you took our talk this morning seriously, Anon.”
“Mm. Yep.”
>Another group of ponies, music students, pass through the common room, exchanging greetings with one or other of your quartet on their way through.
>“Well, our room should be free now,” Concerto says after clearing his throat. “Shall we go get set up?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
>Symphony and Concerto lead the way.
>You put a hand on Octavia’s shoulder as she turns to follow them.
“Hey. That was... that was good.”
>She meets your eyes only briefly before looking away.
>“Yeah.”
“We should do it again sometime.”
>“…mmm.”
“Like, sometime soon.”
>“Um. Maybe.”
>She hurries off after the others.
>You stay for a moment, adrift in the sudden quiet of the lonely common room. You look after Octavia as she goes and, for once, you’re not even staring at her behind with any lecherous intent.
>You give a deep sigh - not really knowing why, not thinking about it - before following after her.