Thread By Thread

By: Chistery
Editor: DCN

CHAPTER ONE

She was broken.

It took many moon rises for her to make contours of the thought.  It took many sunrises to grasp it.  It took the cast of many sympathetic expressions in kind eyes to practice it.  Now it went without comment from even herself; it was a simple matter of fact.  She had tried in life, she had failed, and now was so terribly broken.  Out on the low plains of Equestria, she'd found a mountain to break her back.

By mid-journey it was very late summer; some of the early crops were already being plucked from the fields to be canned and pickled and jarred and stored for Winter's Rolling.  Without money and without a home, soon wandering would be difficult, if not suicidal.

She needed a place for the winter, if not forever.

She followed where her shadow fell every day - toward the Great Winter Gate, the boundary separating Canterlot from the rest of Equestria.  Its alabaster twinkled cheerily in the distance and the long winding High Road to follow.  The high castle walls spoke of permanence.  It was a place that had been forever, would be forever ...

It was a good strong place to go.

The journey to Canterlot was long, and had taken much of the heat of her anger and transmuted grief.

Close to journey's end, somewhere between bargaining and acceptance and a small turn from the Canterlot turnpike, she was threadbare.  Over the hard wandering she'd started to feel weak at the joints, felt the sheen leave her mane, and weariness creep to her center.  By her reflection in the odd puddle or stream, a suggestion of ribs had begun to show.

She desperately needed a place to mend.

The food on the road was very thin and often flavorless; the "best we can do, bless your heart" special. Not long ago she would have spat it out.  Not long ago … She would have glimmered and gleamed and laughed in soft high biting peals.  She had been gorgeous and wonderful and worth listening to.

There was now only a long road and few passers-by; strong stallions with carts of hay.  She always broke her gaze with them.

There was no one worth minding on those four chipped hooves.

She was broken.

---

The Red Ale almshouse on the far side of Canterlot was full of the same kind-eyed expressions.  Just before dinner time one day in early autumn, the lone wanderer arrived.  Without question and without comment, a fresh simple dress was provided, a bed made, and a passable soup and good bread given at mealtime.  

Near to tenth bell, the slip of a pony stretched out between clean sheets and passed into sleep, slack and relieved.  Her last thought was of of the room; it smelled of linens and lemon soap.

The following breakfast revealed an extremely shy and famished pony.  There were very quiet tears after a third serving of toast and marmalade.  Her stomach was heavy and full and … right for the first time in weeks.

This did not go unnoticed.  Madam Stewart was a kindly old mare at the head of house.  She didn't take many truly hard-luck cases, but there was deafening silence in those dark, downcast eyes.  In time, the manager began to speak with her in earnest.

By degrees Madam Stewart was told a story.  It was somewhat typical - a broken spirit, a strange haunted expression, a hallow tone - but queer in somepony so young.  There was spirit left, but one left low and guttering.  Madam Stewart took great pains to speak kindly, to let the words come haltingly if at all from her new guest.  There wasn't money left in her life, or fame or fortune - just a scared little girl.

Madam Stewart checked in on her new charge that night, her yellow lantern flickering in the small bunk-room.  Fast asleep, but twitching - troubled.  Returning to her ledger by the cash box, a few numbers shifted here and there - what was one more mouth to feed?

The words came more easily in the days to follow; in a week Madam caught just a glimpse of a smile at breakfast.  Another guest had crafted an exemplary joke about pears.  It was good to see the tiny filly flash a crooked grin.  The rising luster in her blue coat made it all the more beautiful.

After some time there came chores.  While the now-too-thin unicorn couldn't give bits, at least she could prod about with her magic.  Failing that there was cleaning in the kitchen, seeing after neighborhood children during high work days, and the ever-popular "being a good dear and running a grocery errand."  To the enigmatic pony the days were comfortable if threadbare.  She was warm and fed; that alone was a gift.

It wasn't after many days of suspiciously easy labor and mysteriously "extra" servings left in the dinner pot the visitor was delivered a neatly folded acceptance letter from a local shop for an interview.

She hadn't sent an application.

The old mare with smiling eyes protested to not have a clue where it'd come from, or how, or why.  Madam Stewart did however know precisely where a fresh plate of orange scones should go - her guest room.

The filly spent most of the night gnawing away at a single scone, nervous to take too deeply of kindness.  Only important people deserved kindness.

She'd been important once.

--

The letter called for a very specific time.  It was eighth morning bell, sharp, in bracing italics.

Madam Stewart brought her a surprisingly refined dress at sunrise, a cake of honey soap, and a surprisingly forward "Good luck."  Though the French blue cloth was some 40 summers old, the colors matched, the lace was elegant.  With a thorough scrubbing and a good trim of her robin's egg mane from Mister Clips next door, she was presentable.

A very presentable shaking leaf.  The rising autumn winds did not lessen the impression.

The sign very clearly and proudly exclaimed "Hoity Toity Boutique."  Flat serifs spoke deeply of grace; each thick line spoke of couture and money.

Her interviewer, a pudgy if well-heeled stallion named Percival Precision, commented on "the very chic fashion choice" of his interviewee - no, "guest."  To everyone, she was a guest.  His sweater-vest spoke of comfort and a certain age and understanding.  His eyes and hooftips knew business sense and a good worker.

The introductions had been amicable; the wages were outlined helpfully if a little sharply.  Hours were flexible within reason.  Two smiling and clueless eyes remarked, "Any filly of a certain age would have better things to do, and likely school work.  You are in college, aren't you?"

Her resume wasn't asked after; Madam Stewart's name had a certain weight.  The mahogany desk at first seemed daunting, but had shades of warm cherry and business acumen.  A bowl of candies at his elbow softened the impression.  His slight Fillydelphia accent rumbled gently but firmly, ushering the interview along.

---

By half-past-eighth bell, many conversational hurdles had been passed.  Her ability to speak and appear … normal, at least, was better than she'd expected.  Tensions had eased.  She was intently looking at a point just beyond the stallion's ear as Percival cleared his throat meaningfully, "There's one thing I have to ask, it's something I ask everyone.  There are a lot of workers who can do patchwork and customer service.  What makes you special, exactly?"

She winced, hoping it wasn't visible.  She maintained, "I have experience in the field; my m-mother was a seamstress.  I know thread magic very well."

The graying stallion hmm'd through a well-groomed mustache.  In his middle drawer an extremely enthusiastic letter from Madam Stewart folded about a darned sock from Madam Stewart screamed as much.  "And …?"

"I can - I can cast strong illusion spells in fabric," she quickly added, "as the designers like."

The stallion raised a brow archly.  Hoity had been searching for talent along those lines …

"And if you were asked to fill in at the store front, do you have  … flair?"

"Yes.  I can have flair.  I did theater," she forced, emphasis on did.  It felt like the thing to do.

Percival took in a long view of the young filly. There was a measure of hesitation and maybe fleeting panic, but the round face remained stoic.  Her stage presence was good; She may falter some days, certainly, but ...

Percival broke into a reassuring smile.  This was a charity case at first blush, to be sure, but there was  promise for great talent - and grace under pressure. "I feel you'll do well here."

Relief washed over the her face; a long-awaited sunrise.  It deepened the rightness of the decision.

Percival reached for a quill from its deep dark ink well, and set the nib to a fresh contract.

"How do you spell your name, exactly?"

"T-R-I-X-I-E."