The move to Canterlot hasn’t been perfect. I know that. I pride myself on noticing things, but it doesn’t take my astute eye to heed the obvious signs. Rainbow sighing, for one. Honestly, Rainbow, sighing?

So I smile at her. I levitate the precious dark bottle with tender care, with gravity and with some veneration. I angle it perfectly, enjoy the way that dark and beautiful liquid finds its home in the crystal that has the emblem of my House on it.

She smiles back. It’s a different smile, yes, but it is still genuine. Genuine feeling has many different shades and textures; I know this. Any connoisseur of wine will tell you that all reds are not created equal. I am no snob—at least, I do try not to be. I understand in my finer moments that the variety of both vintage and life does not always equate to a hierarchy.

So I smile at Rainbow Dash, my favorite pegasus whose eyes seem flatter than normal, less bright. “Rainbow, dear, how was the day?”

It’s a simple question. It’s how I prefer to begin my campaigns, with my favorite pegasus. Innocent, short, simple. This is the first step of the dance.

“Eh. Alright, I guess. Didn’t exactly… do much. I’m working on like a one or two days out of the week sorta basis with the Canterlot weather team. It’s kind of weird.”

I take my first sip, savoring the taste. It’s sweet red, nothing exotic. Nothing terribly expensive, even, but that’s no matter. I brought it with us from home, and I know a piece of Ponyville is appropriate, in all of the grand newness of Canterlot.

I wonder if she notices. I hope so, as she takes her first drink. I pity earth ponies and pegasi, sometimes. I envy their wings and their fortitude, but what of the finer art of control?

“But you are enjoying it, aren’t you?”

She had looked away, thinking, but at my tone she looks back and meets my eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. I mean, it’s weather work, you know? I’ve told you how much I love it. And really, there’s less in the way of storms here, and I miss riding the lightning… but it’s still weather work. I still like it.”

I realize that my face is a bit taut, like I was bracing. Curious, I smooth out the muscles, achieve my poise. It has been a long day, after all, perhaps for us both. The new boutique, here in Canterlot, is doing marvelous business. On the positive side of things, this has meant plenty of money as I renovate and restore the good name of Belle in this city. On the negative, it has kept me from Rainbow more than I would have liked.

“Dash, what have you done with yourself today? It was your day off, if I’m correct?” It annoys me that I’m not sure. I really should be. I do mean to be.

“Yeah. Read some, kind of loafed. Took a walk in that big garden park thing, the one that’s in front of the big silver gates.”

“Oh! I know the one.” I take another sip, remembering. “Do you like it? It’s a splendid little park. You know, it’s been there as long as the Argent Gates have…”

So the evening goes, the two of us on our little couches, the bottle losing its treasure, the night growing older. Maturing, if I’m in the spirit of things, which I often am. Rainbow is no fan of wine in the way that I am, but she will partake if it’s with me. I enjoy the leisurely air of it, as the sun retires and makes its long exodus down into its bed, the two of us here. I will be sitting, I suppose, years and years hence, sipping wine or tea and talking with Rainbow. I am content with this.

The night passes. The bottle is done with, its part played. My campaign goes smoothly, and we lie at opposite ends of the couch. I recount my day. I have measured my life out in coffee spoons and bolts of fabric, in stitches and frazzled, eager apprentices—she has much to say on them, and her lack of… tact, I suppose, is sometimes refreshing. She rolls her eyes at many of my associates, and sometimes I join her. The things that make Rainbow perhaps not the best suited for life as consort to the Lady of House Belle make her a splendid choice for my spouse. So the world moves on.

The glasses are done with. I move slowly, as the talk continues. It is the way of things, with these campaigns of mine. I’m curious if Rainbow senses my mood, if she can notice the wind that changes and the angle of my eyes and smile and the way, lidded, that I watch her as she shares in the vagaries of the morning.

By the time I am close enough to lay my head on her chest it no longer matters to me. It is a simple thing, really, but it is always good. Profoundly so, I would say. She strokes my mane, and the dance is in full swing. The orchestra is playing, somewhere in mind, and we are moving in synch. She smiles down at me, and I notice that the earlier look is gone. I am glad, for it churns up things in me which…

She kisses me softly, and I revel in it. The taste of the wine is on her lips, and I love how it lingers with her, how when my hoof touches her soft, colorful mane she accepts it with a soft grace which would perhaps shock our friends. But the world has layers.

So Rainbow smiles as we break for air, and I’m sure I mirror it. It’s enough, I suppose. There’s nothing permanent in it. It is only a smile and a look that will lead on like a path, but that’s alright. It doesn’t have to fix everything, my first true break in a week. It only has to be a moment to breathe and to come back together, to say hello and to remember.

I can work with that.