> A Taste of the Sun
>  by Non Uberis
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> A Different Perspective
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Ohhh Cocooo!”

The pleasant singsong tone would be a clear indication of good will to most ponies, but to one Coco Pommel any form of unexpected noise is enough to be cause for alarm. She gasps as a fidgeting shock wracks through her and the pen she’d been holding in her hand slips and clatters away. She bites her lip, holding back whatever inoffensive swear was on the tip of her tongue, just as a pony peers into the office.

“Oh goodness, Coco,” Sassy Saddles remarks, her eyes affixing upon the pile of papers that is stacked on the counter. “Don’t tell me you’re still doing paperwork.”

“Um, n-no,” she hurriedly mutters, the pen forgotten for the time being as she shakily fumbles to hold up the stack of papers she’s spent the last—oh, she doesn’t know how long it’s been; she’s afraid to look at a clock—while tending to. Dress orders from clients, supply orders for distributors, applications for fashion shows, modeling requests, and so on. “I j-just finished this set,” she stammers, scarcely able to force the syllables out of her mouth.

A magical aura takes the pages and brings them over to Sassy so she can inspect them. Coco’s anxiousness at the idea of any errors being immediately noticed is almost enough to quash the pang of envy she feels. As grateful as she has been for the assistance and opportunities which Miss Rarity gave to her, in the time since then she has only grown increasingly self-conscious of her limitations as an earth pony. Unicorn magic is simply so useful for so many things which she has taken for granted, even—especially—sewing and crafting, her life’s greatest passion. And two of her closest business associates are unicorns; she desperately yearns to be able to manipulate thread and needle through sheets of fabric like Rarity can.

“Coco?”

“H-huh?” She blinks.

Sassy is staring at her. “Did you hear what I said?” Her voice is not so gay and cheery now. Worried, concerned.

“Nuh…no,” Coco replies, letting her gaze fall.

The older mare sighs as she comes trotting up to and around the desk. “Coco, darling, you’re really too tense,” she coos as she places a hand on Coco’s shoulder, “it’s quite generous of you to assist with the busywork here while you’re in town, but you shouldn’t be fussing so much that it gets you down.” That hand shifts just slightly, fingertips caressing her neck. When Coco looks up at Sassy, she’s smiling warmly. “Give yourself a break. You’re in Canterlot, the capital city!” She turns and sweeps her other arm out toward a window, through which they can see the rooftops and spires of the city, fresh colorful paint and shining marble. “I know it’s not as big as Manehatten, but the culture is something completely different. You should take the time to enjoy it while you can.”

“I suppose…” she mutters halfheartedly. The truth, though she would hesitate to say it aloud in present company, is that she hadn’t especially been planning to do much sightseeing. She’s an indoors pony at heart, a working pony—the knowledge that she’s accomplished a task makes it easier for her to relax than going out to see an art exhibit or a concert or a Wonderbolt race. One of the benefits of working under Rarity at the Manehatten Carousel is that she’s been allowed to run the store largely to her own specifications, with minimal worry for management looking over her shoulder to scrutinize her. She would never complain that Sassy Saddles is treating her in this manner, not when this branch of the store is her own purview, but she can’t help feeling that pressure upon her whenever the mare is in the room, the same feeling which she experienced while under the thumb of her old mentor, Suri Polomare.

And so, when Sassy then suggests “Now that you’re finished, why don’t you treat yourself by going out for a bit?” Coco can’t help silently nodding her head even though she doesn’t particularly want to do that. It’s easier to concede than attempt to suggest something else.

“Splendid!” Sassy is already in the process of shepherding her out of her seat, the office, and the building before she can put up any resistance. “Oh, and here, have this.” At the front door, she opens up a pocketbook, and from it she produces a stack of bits. Coco balks at this, silently gaping, wanting to protest, but because it is expected of her, she still holds out her hands to take the offering. “Treat yourself to something nice, dear,” Sassy says, like a mother to her foal, a comparison that is accentuated by her abnormal height (product of royal Canterlot genes) and Coco’s relatively slight stature, making her nearly a whole head shorter.

“O-okay,” Coco mumbles.

“Just try to take it easy, I’m sure you’ll love it here!” She waves to her, and Coco weakly raises a hand back in response, not really much of a wave in the gesture, but Sassy still promptly shuts the door anyway.

Coco Pommel turns about to look along the street. She sees a couple of ponies passing by, walking straight, elegantly poised, eyes not turning away from the path ahead of them for an instant. She recognizes the design of their clothes right away, the striking matching navy colors, not from any of the Carousel Boutique’s wares, something even more upscale with one or two more zeroes added to the price. It makes her gulp even though they stride on by with nary a glance in her direction.

Canterlot is indeed a far cry from Manehatten in many ways. There is an overall air of affluence which pervades the atmosphere, impossible to miss in the architecture and the ponies who live here. This also imparts a sense of intensity, the distinct feeling of being judged silently, by every passing pair of eyes, by the windows of buildings. It’s strange to her because she knows that Manehatten in comparison is not strictly a safe place to be—a large city can have an equally large and seedy underbelly, something she is well familiar with, having grown up there—but she still feels distinctly less safe here in Canterlot.

Maybe she can just go back inside. Open the door really quietly. Hope that Sassy Saddles doesn’t notice her. Hide in her room and curl up under the desk.

But then her stomach grumbles at her. She happens to look up, and she sees the sun hanging directly overhead at the peak of the sky. Noon: she really managed to work through the whole morning. She looks at the pile of bits in her hand, pouting anxiously to herself; her guilt gnaws at her, but if the opportunity is being presented to her then she might as well take it and go have lunch.

This quickly proves easier said than done, however. The ritzy ivory façades of Restaurant Row are not far away, and there are all too many options to choose from, but none of them are especially appealing to her. Despite her association with the brand of Carousel Boutique, Coco is a fair deal more mundane compared to her colleagues, accustomed to the simple pleasures of fast food and family restaurants. Not to mention that, even with the bits Sassy gave to her, she suspects she might not even be able to afford an appetizer at one of those upscale establishments. “Oh…why can’t there just be something simple?” she laments under her breath.

As she nears the end of the steep winding street, she begins to think that she’ll have to scour the nooks and crannies of Canterlot to find something appealing. But then, right there at the corner of the block, across from an empty plot of land where the ponymade construction gives way to a hill sloping downward that reveals the mountain sprawling below, there is a quaint little storefront that catches her attention for how comparatively plain it is. The light browns and tans of the paint are distinctly evocative of coffee, and in front of it there are a few wrought iron tables for customers to sit at. There is a pony seated at one of them, with a mare in a barista uniform standing beside and speaking to her. Coco thinks the seated unicorn seems awfully morose, discontent even, typical of the upper-class ponies of Canterlot, and she hopes that she isn’t giving the waitress any trouble, but that isn’t any of her business to be concerned with at the moment. She tries not to disturb them while she walks into the café, a gentle ringing of a bell over the door announcing her arrival, the aroma of coffee and baked goods wafting over her.

“Be with you in a moment!” a voice calls out to her, suddenly seizing her attention.

The café interior is devoid of customers, only occupied by another barista behind the counter. She has her back to Coco, but the huge white wings folded over her prevent much of her form from being identified. A bizarre sense of familiarity, of trepidation, creeps through her as she comes up to the counter, gooseflesh rising along her arms. Something about this interaction strikes her as wrong on an instinctual level. She can only try to distract herself by looking at the glass display case full of pastries and pondering what she might want to snack upon, but really she can’t not think about the mare on the other side. It seems to her that this is a pony she isn’t meant to look away from.

Then she turns around and the curtain of feathers swings about to reveal her.

It now becomes apparent to Coco just how tall this mare is—taller even than Sassy Saddles and towering over her. And this height is augmented by the long alabaster horn which juts from her forehead, a horn that goes alongside her wings. Her mane is restrained, both tied into a ponytail and tucked into a cap, but there’s no mistaking its shifting multicolored hues, like an aurora. Her violet eyes twinkle as she casts her gaze toward Coco Pommel for but a moment, flashing her a casual and yet effortlessly beautiful smile.

“Puh…P-Prin…Princess Celestia” Coco stammers in awe and amazement, her eyes nearly popping out of her skull.

The alicorn laughs softly and grins. “Come now, my little pony, you know that I no longer wear the crown.” She thumbs the brim of the cap on her head, peach and white colors matching the apron and shirt she wears. “Please, you may simply call me Celestia.” Next, she points to the nametag pinned to her chest, although with her height it might be very easy for one to overlook this detail. At this angle, Coco can mostly only see her the swell of the mare’s bosom, and she squints for a few seconds before she realizes that she’s ogling the (former) Princess and her face flushes red. Celestia chuckles good-naturedly.

“But Pri…Celestia,” Coco eventually manages to spit out, “what are you doing here, working at a café of all places?”

“What can I say?” she replies with a shrug and another casual smile, “I felt I needed something to do with my time. One cannot simply spend their whole life idle.”

“Well…I suppose that makes sense.” It still seems odd to Coco that the former ruler of the nation would choose such a humble vocation, though. Perhaps she didn’t want to get involved with the stress of politics again, but surely there are other fields more relevant to her talents than brewing coffee.

“Now that that’s out of the way—” Celestia slides a notepad across the counter into her grasp and then picks up a pen with an elegant twirl. “What can I get for you, Coco?” For a moment, Coco is taken aback by the alicorn already knowing her name, but then she remembers that she’s done work for the crown alongside Rarity, of course she knows her. She doesn’t understand how Rarity and her friends are able to live such normal lives while also being some of the most important ponies in Equestria.

“O-oh, um…” With all this surprise and excitement, she had forgotten to think about what she wants to eat. Her eyes flick to the pastry display case, hoping for inspiration to strike her, but she’s overtaken at once by the spread of muffins, cupcakes, donuts, éclairs, and so on. The golden lights which beam down on them like a heavenly aura highlight the flaky shells, granules of sugar, and frosting contours. Oh, dear Celestia (she wonders if the mare across the counter can hear her internal swear), she just wants to eat something.

“Scone…b-blueberry scone,” she eventually manages to mutter.

“Alright.” Celestia makes a scribble on the notepad without even looking at it, maintaining her steady gaze and smile on Coco. “Will that be all?”

On an impulse, Coco thinks that she should pick up something for Sassy; she can’t give the money back, but she can at least use it to give something in return. This results in her fumbling again, though, as she doesn’t know what the unicorn might prefer. “And, uh…an…oat muffin.” She speaks even more quietly, almost a mumble, but Celestia still seems to hear just the same and writes it down.

“Nothing to drink?” she asks with a tilt of her head. Her long horn exaggerates the motion so much more.

Oh no, more decisions. Coco finds her eyes wandering to the display case, but it doesn’t help her. She has to look up instead to see the drink menu hanging on the wall behind the counter. All the different names for coffee confound her, her brain already packed full of fashion knowledge; the truth is that she’s really more of a tea pony. In retrospect, a café might not have been the best place for her to go for lunch, but here she is.

“Coco?”

She flinches and yelps, squawking impulsively, “I’m sorry!”

“There, there,” Celestia says quietly with a low chuckle. She’s amused, but not in a mocking way. Not the way Suri would laugh whenever Coco got flustered because she had misplaced a spool of thread. This feels calming, reassuring, silently telling her that it’s okay for her to panic once in a while, it’s only natural. Even without a crown and a regal dress, the alicorn exudes a matronly authority that helps Coco feel at ease.

“If I may make a suggestion…” Then she leans forward over the counter, whispering even though there’s nopony else in the room. “We’re offering something special today. It’s exclusive.”

Coco’s ears perk up. In the fashion business, where designs ride and die on trends, keeping ahead of the curve is crucial to staying afloat. This is true of Canterlot most of all, the home of all the poshest ponies in the country, any one of whom can start a new trend through sheer force of name association alone. This may not be a matter of fashion, but she understands intrinsically that she’s being gifted an opportunity to get a special sneak peek, even for something as simple as caffeinated drinks.

“W-well…I suppose it couldn’t hurt to try,” she mutters, trying her best not to look away from those violet eyes.

“Excellent,” Celestia beams at her and finishes writing down the order. She tallies it up on the cash register and leaves Coco to count out the bits (not even ten for the whole thing? makes her feel like she’s committing highway robbery, though if she’d been paying more attention she would have noticed that Celestia actually only rang up the baked goods) while she goes about preparing it all. She can’t help but watch all the while, though, trying not to make it seem like she’s staring, as if impatient, or ogling again. It’s not because anything about the process is particularly unusual or extravagant, rather the complete opposite. Celestia moves at a leisurely pace, reaching into the display case to pick out a scone and muffin and put them into paper sleeves, then turns to the back counter again, humming to herself quietly as she works, and although Coco can’t exactly see what she’s doing she can still see that her arms are moving, and she isn’t sure why she’s bothering to do that.

Though Coco Pommel, like most ponies, does not know the true extent of Celestia’s magical prowess (nor does she know that many of the creatures who could make that claim then proceeded very rapidly to cease existing), she understands enough about the mere idea of a centuries-old alicorn to know that she must be one of the most powerful spellcasters in the world. Thus it strikes her as baffling that such a pony would not use her power to simplify such banal tasks. She could surely use levitation to take out both pastries at once and slide them right into their sleeves, cutting the time by more than half. She could have a flurry of cartons and cups floating all around her, pouring and churning and mixing together. She could probably even boil the water all by herself, no need for a kettle; she is—or was—the Princess of the Sun, certainly heat ought to be something she has plenty of capacity for. It still doesn’t exactly take long, and Coco hardly notices the passage of time, but still it could have been faster and easier and simpler.

“Here you go,” Celestia says as she pushes the two bags and the cup across the counter. The latter comes with a slight pause as she remarks, “Careful, it’s hot!”

Coco isn’t so dazed this time that she doesn’t respond immediately, though she still flinches slightly when she grips the cup and feels the heat which seeps through the paper and foam. The heat of the mystery drink. She brings it closer to herself and peels the lid off to inspect its contents. Though she may not drink coffee much, she knows enough to be familiar with what it looks like, and this isn’t that. It’s not a light brown color, not milky, not frothy. It’s a brighter, more vivid kind of color, closer to orange or yellow, almost like tarnished gold in liquid form. The steamy fumes from it still distinctly carry the bitter aroma of coffee, but it’s tinged by something sweeter.

“We’re calling it Sunny Delight,” Celestia remarks before Coco even ask the burning question. She smiles and winks. “Only going to be offered on special occasions.”

While she closes the lid, Coco can’t resist asking, “What’s it made of?”

And while her guard is down, Celestia reaches across the counter and taps her on the nose. She stumbles, staggering, nearly dropping the cup. The alicorn smirks and then wags her finger. “Industry secret, dear. I suspect you’ll understand as soon as you drink some of it.”

“Y-yes, of course.” An instinctive impetus tells her that she shouldn’t have any reason to be suspicious. She spent most of her life putting all her faith in Celestia, when she ruled the country, there shouldn’t be any reason for that to change now. It’s all just so surreal, though. Coco forces herself to keep steady as she hands the bits over the Celestia, who puts them into the register before placing the pastries in a little paper carrying bag, colored the same peach and cream colors as her uniform (“Reuse me!” it proclaims), and handing it over to her. It’s almost like any ordinary business transaction, except the employee is one of only a handful of known alicorns in the world.

“Have a good day,” Celestia says with a wave. Her smile is one that has appeared in many photographs, for publicity appearances and newspapers and tabloids. This doesn’t feel quite the same as any of those, however, not an expression that will be seen by thousands of ponies, safe and sanitized. This is beaming, encouraging, gracious, kind, all at once. It’s the sort of smile that should go under the textbook definition of “service with a smile,” expressed with the sincerity which so few ponies working minimum wage retail positions can muster.

“Thanks, you too,” she replies. Enough of the awkwardness has melted away that she can comfortably smile back. Not all of it, though. She’s had enough excitement for one day; she’s more than ready to get back to the boutique and whatever work she has awaiting her.

And she’s in the process of walking away when Celestia calls for her again. “Coco?” She sounds different, just slightly—it’s not businesslike cordiality, something more casual. When Coco turns back to her, she feels like she’s looking at a completely different mare, one who peers at her openly and honestly. This is not Princess Celestia, not even Celestia the barista, this is just Celestia. She leans forward, elbows pressed on the counter, and she peers at Coco with those intense violet eyes.

“Just the same way I’m a pony like any other,” she says quietly, speaking slowly and emphatically, “it’s not so hard for any pony to be like me, if they put their mind to it.”

Coco finds suddenly that she can’t breathe.

“She can’t know,” she thinks desperately, rapidly, “she can’t know what I was thinking, she can’t know that I was watching her, she can’t know that I wish I could have magic like her, she can’t she can’t she can’t—”

She wets her lips and responds “I understand, Celestia” without fully knowing what it is that she understands.

“Alright.” The alicorn smiles and waves one more time.

Coco turns and walks out of the café. The cool air on her face is at once welcome and disappointing, a return to normalcy and a deprivation of all the tantalizing delights the store has to offer. She takes in a deep breath and sighs it back out her nostrils. She holds the paper bag with the baked goods in one hand and the cup of mystery brew in the other; the latter is still distinctly hot through the thin layer of paper that separates liquid from skin.

That other barista is still speaking to the dour lavender unicorn who was sitting in front of the building. It must be something engaging if the conversation has been going on all this time. Coco tries not to eavesdrop, knowing that it is none of her business, though she hears something about a “binding” before she starts down the street.

As she walks back down Restaurant Row, she idly wonders what the rich and affluent ponies attending these stores would think if they knew that Celestia, one of the hottest (in multiple senses) ponies in the country is just up the street. The café must not be one that gets a lot of publicity or there would be a crowd of ponies coming just to gawk at the former royalty. She regards the cup in her hand; a special menu item like this would be drawing a lot of attention too. She’s familiar enough with the culture of Canterlot to know the expectation would be that she goes about and tells ponies about this new café and the drink they’re offering and the mare who’s brewing it. The gossip wouldn’t take long to spread like wildfire, ideally. For better or worse, though, that’s not exactly her scene, and she certainly doesn’t feel like finding ponies to gab to. Maybe when she arrives at the boutique, she can tell Sassy about what happened, and then she’ll disseminate the information through her own social network.

She looks at the cup again. It still seems dreadfully hot. She considers waiting until she gets back to try drinking any of it, not wanting to scald herself. She also knows, however, that the drink is presumably intended to be ingested while hot, and she wouldn’t want Celestia’s work in preparing it to go to waste. Hesitantly, she comes to a stop, and she raises the cup, smelling the mixture of bitter and sweet that emanates from it. She considers putting it off again when her stomach grumbles impatiently, and she remembers that she’s been putting off the desire to eat for far longer.

“Well…nothing ventured, nothing gained,” she thinks, trying to muster the same courage she would when experimenting with a new kind of fabric, and she tips the cup back to her lips.

Coffee is still similar to tea, and wine, in that it is consumed in quick sips, not chugs; these are refined drinks, meant to be savored.

As such, Coco Pommel has enough experience that she’s able to relish the texture upon her tongue as the warm fluid cascades into her mouth, sweet and creamy, with a tang of citrus and…just a hint of cinnamon. Yes, this would undoubtedly be a hot commodity.

A moment after this revelation, the heat hits her.

She winces, but she doesn’t dare spit out the drink. Her whole body seizes up; she has to fight with herself to keep from crushing the cup in her hand. Her mouth is burning, scalding, searing, she needs to swallow to keep it moving. And yet she finds herself hesitating, because that would mean to divest herself of its taste—the thought that there’s more left to go has not occurred to her. It’s only when the heat becomes unbearable that she gulps it down, and she feels it distend her throat all at once, as if she swallowed something solid and very large.

She gasps and huffs for breath. Her posture has gone slumped, her face haggard as if she’s just finished a mile-long jog. She doesn’t notice the ponies on the other side of the street, or inside the restaurant she’s stopped beside, separated by a thin pane of glass, who are watching her, aghast and confused.

“Oh…g-goodness,” Coco mutters to herself. She brushes her fingers against her face, pushing aside her bangs. Sweat trickles over her brow.

Then she takes another drink, abandoning all decorum this time, a long steady draught of the coffee. It fills her mouth and she gulps it back. Is coffee usually like this? Her past experiences with it were usually so strong and bitter, deterring her from getting invested in it. A part of her is tempted to turn around and go back to the café to see if she can get more right away. No, alas, she has business to get back to; her responsibilities still maintain a firm hold upon her.

But even without the coffee actively being in her mouth—only in her gut, where the ability to detect heat is muted—she still feels distinctly hot. It’s like being in a sauna, a cloying mugginess that’s welling up within her, irrespective of the cool breeze which wafts on her skin. The blouse and skirt she’s wearing suddenly feel stifling, despite it being a perfectly pleasant spring day.

She staggers back into movement, one hoof in front of the other, one step after another. In a daze, the storefronts along the street blur into each other, becoming impossible for her to discern where one ends and the next begins, their signs a jumble of nonsense glyphs like in a dream. She glances upward, and she sees the sun beaming down upon her, blindingly bright, and yet it doesn’t hurt her eyes in the slightest to look at it.

There’s another impatient rumble in her stomach; the drink evidently isn’t enough to sate her. She fumbles with the contents of her hands, shifts the bag so she can stuff her hand into it, sifting through until she finds something soft and doughy. She pulls it out, and she doesn’t stop for a moment to realize that what she’s grabbed is the muffin, the one that had been intended for Sassy. She doesn’t even notice when, in the process of wolfing it down, taking greedy chunks of its doughy flesh and letting crumbs carelessly scatter down her front in the process, she starts biting into the wrinkled paper it came wrapped in. Nor does she notice the patch of fur on her forearm which has changed from pale cream to a snowy white, and it’s steadily spreading further. The spread surges faster when she washes the muffin down with another swig of sweet coffee, and then one more for good measure.

Coco presses a palm against her stomach after that snack is finished. She hopes that she’s satisfied now, but she can’t be entirely certain of that. The heat within her displaces the sensations which she’s accustomed to, blurring and numbing. It feels heavy, somehow, weighing upon her, dragging her down. And it’s growing heavier still by the second, a building pressure in her gut. Despite all this, despite the sensation that something clearly isn’t right about this, she finds that she is calm. The anxiety which so often paralyzes her is nowhere to be seen.

The boutique is just down the street, a few dozen paces away. She doesn’t know when she started snacking on the scone too, chomping down bite after bite and barely giving herself time to chew. Its flaky buttery texture is delectable, but in the presence of the coffee it’s hardly more than an afterthought, just raw food matter to fuel her.

She only has to give pause when she lifts the cup for another sip and all that comes out are a chance few droplets, barely enough to wet her tongue. “Oh…oh no, no…!” She almost crushes the thin cardboard as she wrenches the lid off to inspect the inside, coming to the horrible discovery that it’s empty. “Oh…oh well…” She sighs wearily as she puts it into the bag with the rest of the trash. Now she really wants to go back to the café, but at this point it would just be foolish of her. Maybe later in the evening she could make an excuse to go back out for dinner.

The revelation distracts her from how the timbre of her voice is shifting, heavier and richer with every gasping syllable. She’s too disorientated to think about anything like that. She rubs at her forehead, feeling pressure building just above her eyes, hoping that she’s not on the verge of a migraine. Maybe she can put off work just a little longer and take a bath instead. She wouldn’t mind changing out of her clothes—they feel tight and cloying around her flesh, terrible constraints. Only her lifelong pursuit of fashion (rather than any concern of being publicly indecent) prevents her from tearing it all off right away.

Coco’s standing in front of the door to the boutique now. She can’t quite get a good angle to see straight through the heart-shaped window, or to see a ghostly facsimile of her visage reflected within it. She reaches for the doorknob and pulls on it. She neglects to consider that it’s locked, but that proves inconsequential when her sharp tug rips it open anyway, the apparatus of the lock bolt exposed to the open air. The handle is crumpled when she lets go of it, imprints left of her fingers, which are all white now. The controlled atmosphere within the building brings some comfort to her, but she just wants to get back to her temporary office.

“Hello? Coco?” The voice of Sassy Saddles comes fluttering down to her. It can’t be more than a room or two away, but it sounds like it’s echoing from the other end of a vast empty hall. A part of Coco wishes to simply avoid the other mare if at all possible, just so she can get her fill of quiet, but she feels a pang in her skull again in the middle of walking across the showroom and that slows her, reeling. Dimly, she senses a similar feeling in her back: pinpricks just behind the shoulders, one on either side.

“Coco?” Closer, clearer, just slightly. There’s a pony standing at the top of the stairs which ring about to the upper floor, looking down at her. In the heat, the air seems to shimmer like a mirage, distorting the light around her. For a moment, Coco sees a dark mare, midnight blue with a shimmering mane that twinkles with starlight. Then she blinks and sees that it’s Sassy. Of course it’s Sassy, why would she think otherwise?

“Hi…Sassy,” she mutters blearily, syllables slurring together, while she shuffles up the steps, one at a time. “I brought you…” Her fingers dig through the bag she’s been clutching all this time. All she’s able to pull out is the half-eaten paper sleeve that would have cradled a muffin instead of an actual muffin. “Nevermind.” She carelessly drops it to the floor.

“Coco, you…” Coco only spares the merest glimpse at the unicorn as she goes by. There’s no hearty cheer on her face, no glib enthusiasm, no savvy eagerness for a deal that might push the store to greater heights. Her eyes are wide and her jaw hangs lightly agape. Later, Coco might reflect on this moment and consider that she had carried the exact same expression when she first saw Celestia in a barista uniform behind a café counter.

She’s also looking down at Sassy instead of up, but the glance is short enough that she doesn’t take that into consideration. It’s too hot for her to think about anything of that sort, and her headache is just splitting her apart.

“Coco, what…what’s wrong with…with…!” Sassy pads after her. She seems to reach out for her only to pull back, hesitating, unwilling to make contact.

“I just…need…to rest for a moment, Sassy.” Coco raises her voice, tries to speak as firmly and clearly as she can, just to make herself clear. She isn’t sure that it worked, though—the words that come from her mouth don’t remotely sound like her voice. It still got Sassy to stop following her, her jaw hanging lower still, so she keeps on walking.

The door to her office is ajar, so all she has to do is give it a push to open it.

She does, and the push causes the door to swing about in a swift arc which produces a loud SLAM when it hits the wall hard enough to leave a dent, and that jolts both Coco and Sassy out of their trances, cutting through the fog of heat which has been clouding the former’s brain.

“Wh-wha…?” Coco blinks. She’s confused for a moment as she looks around the room, the filing cabinets, the drawers full of supplies, the desk littered with papers, not sure why she’s standing here. It’s a familiar view, even though the perspective isn’t quite right, her eyes more than a head higher than they had been before. There is one detail, however, which is distinctly different from what she expects, and that is the fringe of bangs hanging just at the top of her field of view. It is no longer a straight line of striped light blue, instead drooping to one side, the individual fibers of hair seeming to blend together into a cloudy miasma, and the colors run together, mixing with shocks of pink and green. “What is this?” she thinks she says next, except this time all that comes from her mouth is a low squeal.

“Coco!” Sassy is calling to her from somewhere. Her attention is too detached from reality to take notice. All her focus is instead upon the mirror that stands on one side of the room (at Rarity’s boutiques, one ought to look their best even while tending to paperwork). Her legs carry her over in long strides, and with each step the seams of her pants come peeling apart just a little more.

When she stands in front of the mirror—the top of the frame so much lower than it should be—there’s a pony staring back at her, but it’s not Coco Pommel, not entirely. This pony is a mix of Coco and something else. Somepony else. A pony who is very familiar to her. She clasps a hand up to her face, over her cheek, where the fur is still cream-colored, her eye aquamarine. Her skin is hot and the bone beneath the surface flexes under her touch. This scant patch is rapidly shrinking before a spread of white, and the other eye is tinged a brilliant violet color. An eye which is stricken with panic instead of looking calm and composed and compassionate. Her mane is warping, its very structure changing, rippling faintly of its own volition as it billows like a plume of steam, only a hint of her natural blue colors remaining as they become swallowed up in vibrant pastel stripes. And there is something on her forehead, protruding and stretching the skin over the smooth brow, thin and pointed and steadily lengthening. She hesitates to touch this growth, as even without that contact she can feel the arcane tingling which is building within it.

With the white encroaching upon her remaining eyesocket, hints of violet pooling in the iris, she whimpers a swear that doubles as a realization: “Oh, Celestia…”

The burning pinpricks intensify all at once and she cries out in a voice that is distinctly no longer her own. A long horn erupts from her forehead, making her taller still, but the far more radical development comes when her blouse sunders to the huge appendages that sprout from her back, crooked limbs which rapidly generate an array of feathery plumage, folding around her. Her top falls away, and to her dismay her bra is also falling loose, but in reflexively reaching up to maintain some meager modesty she discovers that her physique has altered dramatically. Where once she was slim and petite, now she feels a layer of toned musculature beneath her skin, her form pinching in around the waist and trim abdomen and back out at the…oh, heavens, just thinking about the plump mounds she’s not just squeezing but feeling makes her face change color again from white to red. And her pants are losing their battle for structural integrity as well, ripping all down each leg as her thighs thicken and her hips push outward, belt holding on for now but becoming painfully tight, and she can’t unclasp it without letting go of her chest, and her tail furls out behind her, undulating in waves just like her mane.

The ache ends, the discomfort fading to a minimum, though she still feels swelteringly hot, all full of hot air. When Coco dares to open her eyes and look in the mirror once again, there is no longer even a hint of her captured in its reflective surface. Instead, there is only former diarch Celestia staring back at her. She turns, trying to see if the alicorn is in the room with her, staging some kind of trick, but she doesn’t get that far, because she can see that the reflection clearly mirrors her movements, the turning of her head, the blinking of her eyelids, the extending of her arm to reach out to the cool glass (while the other remains clasped over the front of her chest) so that their hands may touch, perfectly matching.

She can only produce choked fragments of syllables while she stares wide-eyed at herself, an expression most unlike Celestia (more often the expression which another pony would wear when facing her wrath).

So it’s left to Sassy to exclaim in disbelief, “COCO?!”

Coco yelps and whirls about, wings flapping limply, horn whistling through the air. Sassy stares at her, astonished, nearly a mirror of her own expression; in truth Coco had forgotten about the other pony’s presence in the building completely. She steps forward, slowly, warily, the way one might approach a dangerous beast. “Are…are you still Coco?” she asks.

“I—” She has to stop herself, clapping a hand over her muzzle, not wanting to hear the voice coming out of her own throat, but it seems as if there is no other recourse. “I…think so?” she says hesitantly, putting a tremble into Celestia’s rich and ardent tone. There is seemingly nothing left of her physically, leaving only her mind and spirit to cling to, which is difficult when those are purely immaterial concepts.

“But…you’re…” Another step closer and Sassy reaches out to touch Coco’s mane. The sense of contact is distant and transient, fibers of hair rippling like a current around the unicorn’s fingers. She flinches momentarily before steadying, and when she pulls away her shock has dialed down to mere surprise. “What…how…why are you Celestia?!” she asks in exasperation, weary as she catches up on lost breath.

“I don’t know!” she cries back in greater fervor. “I was…I was just coming back here and…!” She tries to remember, kneads her temple with the one hand she can afford to keep free, but the heat still clouds her mind. She remembers walking. She remembers eating. She remembers…being somewhere else.

She remembers Celestia. The alicorn had already been on her mind when all of this happened. Why is that?

Sassy’s horn shimmers and something levitates into her grasp. It’s the paper bag Coco had brought with her—she let it drop to the floor at some point during her transformation. “Sugary Heights Café and Bakery?” she reads off the label on the side. Her perplexed tone tacitly suggests that she’s never heard of the name before, which must mean that it’s an establishment too low-profile to be worthy of her attention until now.

Coco dimly recalls walking into a cozy little store full of warm light and delectable smells (and it also occurs to her that she never actually registered the name of the store, never looked up at the sign before or after going in).

And she remembers a mare standing behind the counter, a mare who was tall and beautiful and had a horn and wings even though only a handful of such ponies existed and surely none of them would be working as a barista—

“She was there.”

“What?” Sassy blurts back.

“She…Celestia was there, at that café,” Coco mutters. She lurches forward and reaches into the paper bag, and this time she takes out the cup which had once held a golden brew, at once scalding her and tempting her to imbibe more and more. “Sunny Delight,” says, more thinking aloud than speaking to anypony else, “she gave this to me, said it was a…a special menu item.”

Sassy takes the cup from her brusquely. She opens the lid, her expression hard, mouth drawn into a thin line across her muzzle; Coco can’t parse the thoughts that might be going through her head on seeing that the paper container is empty. “You’re really saying that Princess Celestia was working at some random café?” she asks skeptically, waving the cup about, “And she gave you a drink that…transformed you into a clone of her?”

“Y-yes!” Coco stammers back, trembling with anxiety and some small hint of anger that this turn of events is being met with any amount of doubt. “Is it really so hard to believe that when you saw what just happened to me, wh-what I am right now before your very eyes?!”

Sassy stares back for a while, looking like she wants to rebuke this assertion but ultimately unable to, before responding, “Alright, fair enough.” As the tension in the room diminishes, she only then seems to take notice of the current state of Coco’s modesty, a faint blush rising on her cheeks before she averts her gaze.

“What am I supposed to do about this?” Coco exclaims. The question could apply to multiple factors which are exacerbating her panic. What’s she going to do about being turned into Celestia? What’s she going to do about the destruction of her clothes? What’s she going to do about her breasts being so huge? She can tell just from grasping over her chest that she’s gone up multiple cup sizes, and her buttocks and hips have swelled just as much.

Again Sassy doesn’t give any immediate response. She stares out into the middle distance, focusing intently. One hoof taps intermittently on the floor: she’s deep in thought. Sassy Saddles is of a different mindset than Coco or even Rarity, tuned more specifically into the business of fashion, the management, the bureaucracy. She understands the urgency that goes into their affairs, the need to act quickly and decisively.

“We could sue,” she remarks blithely, “I’m sure we could wring a lot out of this.”

“Wh-what?!” Coco sputters, “Sassy, I don’t…I need to do something about this!” She gestures emphatically to herself, to the body that is no longer her own.

Sassy sighs and rolls her eyes. “Yes, of course I understand that Coco, but I’m no magic specialist, I haven’t the foggiest idea how to help you with that.” Another sigh as she rubs her brow. “Well, I suppose the only thing we can do about this is go there and look for Celestia and see if she can undo this enchantment.”

“W-w-wait!” Coco starts after her, but Sassy has already turned toward the door. Despite all this inconvenience, the embarrassment, the implicit deception, Coco finds that she has difficulty regarding Celestia with anger. Is it because of how the reverence for her is still firmly ingrained in her subconscious mind? Quite possibly to some extent, but in the way the alicorn looked at her, so calm and caring, she can’t imagine that any of this was done out of malice.

Sassy isn’t listening; she just keeps walking to the door. She can get quite stubborn when it comes to one of her plans. Coco doesn’t know if she’s expecting her to go with her, while her clothes are in tatters, or to stay here. She doesn’t especially like either of those options—at a time like this, being left by herself is the last thing she wants.

“Wait!” she shouts, reaching out with her free hand, and this time she speaks exactly in the kind of tone that Celestia would, the voice that commands ponies. But before Sassy can even be taken aback by this, Coco is already extending her focus beyond her. The door to the office is still standing ajar, leaving an exit wide open. It’s too far for her to reach, but in the heat of the moment, in her desperation, she isn’t thinking of that. It’s all too easy to imagine grasping the handle and pulling, swinging the door shut once more. A surge of adrenaline courses through her.

A golden light manifests around the doorknob.

Sassy stops in place, and a moment later the door sweeps in front of her, a gust of wind ruffling at her mane, and then slams back shut, alarmingly loud, forceful enough that cracks appear in the wood and molding around the frame. She turns back around to face the transformed alicorn, who in turn is looking upward, nearly going cross-eyed so she can see the horn which extends from her forehead. Though now there is no light, she can distinctly feel the remnants of the arcane power which coursed through her, tingling along her nervous system. It is distinctly different from the power which Coco has known as an earth pony—her capacity in that field has always been limited, but she is familiar at least with the strength in her core, the sturdiness that helps her to come back to herself after bouts of consternation. This is something new, and she has observed it on many occasions, but she never could have imagined the sheer giddiness which it could make her feel, bubbling in her skull. She reaches up to touch her horn, smooth as bone with a thin spiral groove running along its length, and she feels the lingering pulsations which beat through it, pleasantly warm.

“I’m…an alicorn,” she whispers to herself, wide-eyed, and then steadily louder, a grin breaking across her face, “I can use magic!”

“Now Coco—” Sassy tries to interject, but Coco doesn’t hear her. She’s already contemplating the power within her and how to make use of it. The telekinetic manipulation came effortlessly, through sheer impulse, but she concentrates on the sensations which flowed through her in that brief moment. Perhaps there’s supposed to be more of a science to it, a topic which ponies like Princess Twilight have spent their lives researching, but for her it proves to be enough merely to manifest the thought, and her horn channels her desire. Now more conscious of it, the energy which pulses through the conical extremity is warm and comforting, filling her with profound elation. Her eyes flick about the room, not at Sassy but in her direction, and she catches sight of the paper shopping bag she’s still holding. Easy enough.

Coco mentally pulls on the bag. Sassy yelps as this in turn yanks on her, drawing her arm straight out, and it might have pulled her off her hooves if the flimsy handles of the bag didn’t tear. A crumpled wad now floats in the air in front of Coco, suspended in a luminous aura. “Oh…oops,” she says, yet still she can’t help laughing.

“Coco!” Now Sassy is the one raising her voice, stamping a hoof on the floor for good measure, demanding her attention. The unicorn looks very cross, her hands balled into fists at her sides, though there is a faint waver twinkling in her eyes. The reverence for Celestia that remains instilled in her no doubt makes it harder for her to rationalize speaking out against the alicorn, let alone the confusion that comes from knowing implicitly that this is another pony. “You can’t just use magic willy-nilly like that!” she asserts, and she gestures emphatically to Coco’s horn—still alight, blazing brightly.

Coco’s ears droop back, and she feels a pang of shame, but this time she isn’t overcome, and she stands her ground. It could be because of the magical power which she now bears, welling up within her like a furnace, or it might be as simple as her newfound capacity to see over the top of Sassy’s head granting her confidence. “Why have magic at all if I’m not going to use it?” she asks sternly, and Celestia’s strong voice serves to bolster her confidence now rather than upset her. “Is that not the point of it? It’s supposed to be helpful for ponies, not something we…we hoard in ourselves.”

Sassy groans exasperatedly and covers her face with one palm. “Coco, the point is that you don’t know how to use it!” She flings away the ripped bag handles for emphasis, and then she turns around and points aggressively to the office door, which now sits slightly crooked in its frame. “Foals misfiring with their magic can be dangerous enough, but if you…if you really are just like Celestia, then you’re playing with a whole lot of fire, and I won’t have you burning down this whole building if it goes out of control!” (Neither of them is aware of the full extent of this notion, that Celestia could reduce a whole city block to ashes with but a thought if she wanted to.)

Coco huffs back and pouts. She’s already halfway to having her arms grumpily crossed in front of her. The other arm is still reaching up, hand delicately touching her horn; she just can’t get over the idea of having one of her own. Her rainbow aurora mane laps at her forearm like the ocean tide, velvety and immaterial. “Fine, so I could learn to use it better,” she admits. “Then I’ll just…have to practice more, it’s no big deal.” How tiresome; just when she thought new doors were opening up for her (after closing a door, ironically), she has to worry about more obstacles getting in her way.

Just as she’s tiring of the pose she’s currently maintaining. The arm she’s been using to cover her chest is getting sore from holding the same position for so long. She looks down at herself, at the tattered remains of her blouse and the too-small bra which she’s been clutching in place. “What I could really use right now is new clothing,” she mutters with a sigh.

“Hmph, well, good thing you’re already in a boutique, isn’t it?” Sassy replies, cracking a smirk. “At least that’s something we can easily work on.”

Coco wants nothing more than to go straight to using levitation to manifest a whirlwind of dresses all around her, but she has to rein in that urge for now. She knows that she’s more than capable of fashioning something with her own hands, even if it’s liable to take the rest of the day. But she also knows that she can’t just go straight into making any clothing, and since this will be clothing for herself she can’t do the first part by herself, and that makes the anxiety start to bloom anew within her. “Um…do we…already have measurements for Celestia on file?” she asks hopefully, knowing that with how many times the alicorn has come to Rarity for dresses then surely they would keep that information around for convenience.

But Sassy shakes her head and clicks her tongue. “That won’t help. We tried doing that before, but every time Celestia came in for some new clothes we had to take the measurements all over again. Always something different—just an extra inch here, an inch shorter there, enough that the product would never come out right if we relied on those files.” A grumble as she steps closer. “Oh well, one more for the folder.”

“I d-don’t…”

Coco continues to stammer as Sassy beckons her toward the mirror before then sifting through the cabinets of the office until eventually pulling out a coiled measuring tape and a note pad to write upon.

“Mmm…I suppose we’d might as well just strip everything off,” the unicorn remarks, then mutters, “already ruined anyway. Shame.”

Coco gulps and shivers. The reflection she sees in the mirror, despite no longer looking like Coco Pommel at all, distinctly shows the sort of mannerism which she’s accustomed to, and that elicits a pang of regret and doubt in her. She has to steel herself, but it is difficult to do so when she has already been hesitant to look at herself naked, while she’s wearing the body of a stranger, the idea of letting somepony else see her like this is even more alarming. In the end, when she has no choice other than to let her hands fall, releasing the tatters around her chest, and then undo her belt and shimmy out of the remains of her pants, all she can do is clamp her eyes shut. She doesn’t have to look at herself, and if she doesn’t see Sassy at work then she can pretend that she isn’t looking at her either, however futile this might be.

But before she closes her eyes and rejects reality, there is one thing she takes notice of: on her flanks, she bears not a sun, the mark of Celestia’s rule, but a purple hat with a red feather. So there is something of Coco Pommel left after all. It almost makes her think that it would be better for her not to be clothed just so that distinction can be readily apparent to anypony who sees her.

“And will you please keep these things still?” Sassy jerks her out of her thoughts when she prods one of her wings. This prompts a reflex response and the appendage furls out, giving the mare a faceful of feathers.

“S-sorry!” Coco apologizes, though she can’t help chuckling nervously to herself while Sassy sputters and then gathers herself once more.

Maintaining that composure proves difficult as the measuring process carries on, inch by inch, along length and thickness and circumference. It’s usually not so hard for Coco to stay still during these proceedings, having long since grown accustomed to being on both the giving and receiving end. Of course, usually she would have the benefit of wearing at least some underwear instead of being completely nude. Being aware of her wings, however, makes it so much harder not to think about them, about moving them. She had been sufficiently distracted by her horn that she didn’t think about how she isn’t merely a unicorn, she has the full alicorn package now. The crooked limbs on her back are fine and dainty but also powerful, and it pains her not to be able to freely flex them. Every slight fidget is met with a wince from her and a quiet grumble from Sassy if they’re too close to her.

It doesn’t take long, but it feels far longer while Coco forces her eyes to stay closed, shrouding her world in blackness.

“Alright, that’s everything,” Sassy announces, peeling off the last sheet of her notes, the little pages floating over to rest upon the desk. After the deep breath of relief that comes with dropping that pose and stepping away from the mirror, Coco goes to check the measurements. She promptly balks at the sight of the numbers, one after another. Perhaps she oughtn’t be surprised, given the obvious evidence apparent to her eyes, given that she already had some awareness of Celestia’s rough proportions, but there’s a world of difference between that and knowing that these measurements are in reference to her own body.

“This is going to take…a lot of fabric,” she mutters warily to herself.

“And only the finest material for Princess Celestia, of course,” Sassy comments dramatically with a toss of her mane. “If you want it to be authentic, that is.”

“Oh, but…” Coco cups a palm over her mouth as a whole new sense of impending doom rises over her. “I can’t just use our supplies for this. That wouldn’t be right.”

Sassy sighs and waves a hand at her. “Please, dear, don’t get in a fuss about that, just do whatever you have to, we can afford a little loss.” And then she strokes at her chin thoughtfully while she mutters under her breath, “I wonder if we could spin this into an attraction…authentic royal fashions? Would anypony buy into that? Hmm…”

This keeps her distracted while Coco comes up to embrace her, arms wrapping around her. “Thank you, Sassy, I really appreciate it.”

Sassy’s only response is a choked gasp, the air squeezed out of her, her eyes bugging out of her skull. There are light cracks audible as the alicorn’s tight hug pinches her like a vice. Fortunately, Coco then remembers that she’s still naked and pressing her bust on somepony and hastily lets go, flushing red, and Sassy straightens herself to the tune of more cracks. Coco apologizes again and Sassy rolls her eyes.

“And you’re certain that you don’t want me to go over there and tell off…whoever gave you that drink?” Sassy asks with her hands placed assertively on her hips. Maybe she still doesn’t entirely believe that it was actually Celestia herself, or maybe she’s trepidatious of the idea of having to stand up to the alicorn.

“No, we don’t have to do anything like that,” she replies, and then after a few seconds adds, “not yet. I don’t think I’d mind having…just a little more time like this.” She looks up at her horn again, and she manages to grin.

“If you say so.” Sassy shrugs back at her. “And do you want any help with the sewing?”

“No, I’d rather…handle it myself, if you don’t mind. At a time like this, I could really use…a project to get my hands busy.” Although she hopes that she might be able to use more than just her hands, in however much capacity she can manage.

Sassy smiles just a little at that. “Fair enough, I suppose. I see you still have the drive for tailoring in you.” She turns back to the desk, and with a flash of levitation she picks up a stack of papers. “I suppose I should take some of this off your hands. Still plenty of forms to fill out.”

Coco laughs cheerily, and the light around her seems to shine just a little brighter.


= = = = =


“Sorry to run out on you like this, Celestia,” Caramel Swirl says while slipping a coat over her barista uniform, “are you all good on closing up the store for the night?”

“Of course, of course,” Celestia calls back while beckoning her to hustle onward with an underhand flick of her fingers, “do as you must, everything’s under control here.” She smirks to herself at the thought that “closing up for the night” has essentially been a part of her duties for more than a millennium.

“Great, thanks!” A moment later, as the cream pegasus stands at the door, she looks back over her shoulder and adds, “You’ve been doing a great job, by the way, I really appreciate the assistance.”

The alicorn beams back and bows her head, a gesture which makes Caramel blush, just a little. Celestia appreciates that about her—the mare has been relatively candid about the idea of former royalty working under her. She believes it’s because she has enough to worry about with the café to begin with, having to maintain it largely by herself with stiff competition from the local restauranteurs. She insisted on putting Celestia on the payroll even though she said she’d do the work for free, and she found that admirable. She’s elected not to tell her about the sizeable donation which will be made to her coffers before the end of the week.

“Thank you,” Celestia says with solemn sincerity, and then she waves again, “now run along, you don’t want to be late for the store closing.”

“Ah, right!” Caramel bursts into movement, and the bell over the door jangles as she yanks it open and then stumbles out into the gloaming twilight, shouting back one last time to say, “Have a good night!”

Celestia watches her go, nearly tripping over her own hooves for a moment before she kicks into the air and flaps her wings, launching out across the empty hill on the other side of the street. She quietly considers looking into buying out that plot, maybe financing a miniature park there; it would be a terrible shame if that view were to be overtaken by another tacky restaurant.

She finishes polishing the front counter. Looking down, she can see a faint reflection of herself cast in the glistening surface. It might just be her imagination, an illusion created by the imperfections etched into the wood, but there are ghosts of wrinkles around her eyes. Her smile has faded, flattened. “Nopony can be young forever,” she muses aloud.

This is met with a low grumble from her stomach. She realizes that it’s been a dreadfully long time since she last ate, and it’s well past dinner time now. Did she even stop to eat lunch? She can’t remember.

She turns and looks at the display case full of baked goods. Or, rather, which had once been full of baked goods, most of its contents emptied over the course of the day. The few holdovers can be wrapped up and sold at a day-old discount. Before that, though, she lifts the glass on the back and surveys the options available to her. She notices that one of them is a blueberry scone, and she remembers Coco Pommel, one of her dear customers today. She wonders how she’s doing now, but the fact that the city isn’t presently ablaze is enough to suggest that it can’t be too bad.

She takes the scone and takes a bite—savoring the taste, even if it’s not quite fresh anymore—while walking over to deposit a few gleaming gold bits into the cash register.

Before she even looks up, she knows to expect another pony. This in spite of the bell over the door not having rung at all. It’s in the air, the way it ripples with arcane emanations. It could only possibly have been one pony given the circumstances, but it takes her hardly an instant to recognize the cool aura, the faint hint of mint.

So Celestia skips straight to the point and asks, “How bad is the damage?”

“Not as bad as it could have been,” Luna replies gruffly. She wears a long coat which obscures much of her form, though there’s no mistaking her wings and horn or her starlit mane and tail. She’s holding a bundle of papers, flipping through them one by one. “The majority of the transformations did not take place while the subjects were in public, but a few of them were observed by others. One photographer was even fortuitous enough to have the opportunity to take what could have been the shot of his career. Too bad for him it had to be requisitioned.”

From amidst the papers she produces a photograph. It shows a pony, midstride, on a street in Canterlot—the pearly marble façade of Oatbrycki’s stands in the background, so this must be Restaurant Row. The pony is Coco Pommel, but not entirely. Her short bob mane is in the process of extending toward her shoulders, its colors bleeding and shifting. Patches of her coat have changed from light cream to pure white. Her physique is changing, growing taller and more curvaceous, straining her clothing in the process, tears along the seams of her blouse and pants. She bears a dazed, listless expression, almost drunken. In one hand she holds up a half-eaten muffin to her mouth and a paper coffee cup in the other, with a bag slung from her wrist. Celestia absently wonders what the repercussions of this photograph going public might have been—maybe Coco wouldn’t be recognized in the state she’s in, but the bag advertising Sugary Heights definitely would, and that could potentially cause problems for the little café.

“Then there should be nothing to worry about until tomorrow,” Celestia remarks with a glib shrug. “Perhaps I will even be able to get a good night’s sleep.” She peers sharply at Luna, who rolls her eyes and scoffs.

“Perhaps tomorrow will be when the real chaos begins, Sister,” Luna admonishes with a foreboding glare of her own. “How many of those drinks did you give out?”

“Oh…a few.”

“And was it enough?”

This cuts through the sun mare’s armor just enough to make her look down, rueful, and sigh. “No, not enough to make a difference.”

“There are far more conducive ways for you to burn off your excess magic, Tia.” Luna speaks softer, gentler. “The effort that I am putting into keeping your shenanigans under wraps is enough to keep my own reserves out of critical mass.”

After a silent pause, Celestia asks, “So what you’re saying is that you should spend some time behind the counter here while I run diversions and that’ll even things out?”

Luna doesn’t respond, only blinks her eyelids slowly.

“Yes, yes, I know what you mean.” Celestia waves her hand. “I know there are easier methods we could be employing. Sometimes, though…I just can’t help myself. We may no longer carry the weight of a crown, but I can’t resist the urge to help ponies.” She thinks of Coco again. Coco, so anxious and jumpy. She had seemed tired when she came in today, exhausted, and Celestia is aware from correspondence with Rarity how the mare is prone to overworking herself. She was also aware of the way Coco watched her at work—ogling, perhaps, but not strictly in a lusting manner, more like in awe. Focusing on the motions of her hands. On her horn. It made her ponder even before she handed the cup over. “Princesses or not, Sister, I believe we still owe it to the world to make a difference where we can.”

Luna shakes her head, doesn’t seem particularly convinced by any of this, but still replies, “If that is what you believe, so be it. All I ask is that you consider being more prudent in your philanthropy from now on.”

“Everything’s under control, Luna,” Celestia says with complete confidence.

“I certainly hope so, for all our sakes.” Luna maintains her gaze for a few seconds longer before she turns, wings fidgeting, and starts to walk away, and the air shimmers and ripples around her as she disappears into the ether.

Celestia finishes eating her nearly forgotten scone—even though she can’t quite savor the taste anymore—before turning back to the rear counter, where all the brewing materials are. She cleans the implements and puts everything away one by one, saving the most important ones for last, preparing to stow them away somewhere special so that Caramel won’t find them. These are her own ingredients which she brought with her, in part because she doesn’t want to take any of the barista’s own supplies to make drinks which she’s giving away for free. It’s also because there could be disastrous results if any of them ended up in the regular concoctions.

“Nothing has gone terribly awry so far,” she mutters as she picks up a carton of milk. It feels warm in her grasp, and a hint of golden luminescence bleeds through the cardboard container. “Perhaps, then…I can afford to increase the concentration.” She smiles faintly as her horn lights up, and the golden glow of the carton increases. The strain within her diminishes, just a little, as her deep reservoirs of solar magic seep out into the world.

She wonders how many customers might come in tomorrow, how many of them might be wearing her face, and how many might be coming for a second dose.