Octavia walked side by side with Big McIntosh down the same road that she’d firmly etched into her memory. Past the log dam in the stream again, hearing the same birds and squirrels and deer… feeling the same soil gather under her hooves. She’d even brought a stack of sheet music, in case inspiration struck as hard as it had last time.

The same sounds, the same colors, the same smells, through the woods, down the dirt road, and on to the farm, unfolding like a flower again as she emerged from that tunnel-like forest path. Just as before. She could—

Stumbling, Octavia caught herself on a low branch by the roadside. Her. What she could see, what she could hear, what she could get out of being with him. Her! At his questioning look, her heart froze, but she just swallowed hard, nodded, and trotted on. No place to have a crisis, no, no, why now?

Even with that wonderful view spread out in front of her, she closed her eyes and pictured Big Mac’s face. Sweet, earnest, nothing hidden. Nothing.

If she could never play music again, would she choose—? No. Not fair. Not yet. But she had written those postcards to him, and she meant every word.

Octavia opened her eyes and took in the entirety of the farm. All of it, what made Big Mac who he was. That’s what she’d find, not the music. Not how that first evening run had affected her playing, but the look on his face when they’d both stopped, out of breath. Not how the colors added meaning to the music, but how they added meaning to her.

She added a nervous little laugh, and there went his eyebrow, but her heart thawed as she dragged it up from the ground. She still gritted her teeth. Good questions. Good because she cared about the answers, and that at least drew a weak smile from her.

Up the path she followed him, into the house, and upstairs. “Spare room’s here, same as last time you saw it. Washroom across the hall. I’ll give you a moment to get settled while I put my work collar on.”

He stepped past her and swung his door around behind him, but it remained cracked—she could see her three postcards propped up among the photos on his dresser. He’d kept them! She blushed and had to stifle a laugh when she figured that he’d probably arranged them so the doll could see.

Octavia went in the guest room and set her saddlebag on the bed, then unpacked it. She’d picked up a few more… rustic grooming tools, in case something out here demanded them, though she had to admit she didn’t really know how to use them. Her standard hairbrush, soap, shampoo, toothbrush, blanket, out onto the dresser, and then the currycomb and hoof pick she’d had a devil of a time finding in Canterlot. Those had gotten her an odd look from the cashier.

Her ears pricked toward a squeaky hinge in the hall, and she trotted out to find him waiting. “All set?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered. “So what do you have in store for me now?”

“I just appreciate your company.” He cocked his head toward the staircase. “You can walk along while I do my chores.”

“Oh, I intend to help!” she said, giving his shoulder a shove. “I can’t live off your hospitality without contributing. I’m going to earn my keep!”

Big Mac stopped halfway down the flight. “Well… uh… I s’pose I can find somethin’ for you to do. Um… I gotta plow a hayfield today. No way am I gonna hitch you up to a plow, but you can help push from behind, if you like.”

She nodded hard and hustled down the stairs, beating him to the door. “What are you waiting for, slowpoke?” With a chuckle, he just led her toward the barn at a slow, rolling gait. Halfway there, he paused to wave at a gray pegasus who’d swooped past the front porch. The mare did a double take at the sight of the two of them and nearly dropped out of the sky before grinning and flitting off again. Octavia raised an eyebrow. “Friend of yours?”

He broke into a small smile, one which was clearly much bigger on the inside. “Yeah… you ever have somepony who’s just always… there? You don’t even realize it, but when you look back, they’ve been beside you all along? Pretty much a sister, ’cept we don’t fight.”

“I… I guess. My mom had a friend like that.” She might not like where this was going…

“Met Derpy when I was three, I think,” he said quietly. “Last couple years, though, she’s doin’ the family-’n’-a-kid thing, and I don’t see her as much. Needless to say, she’s gotten an earful ’bout you.”

Maybe Octavia did like where this was going. Either way, he’d resumed his walk to the barn, so she trotted to catch up.

Big Mac hitched himself to the traces and dragged the plow out to a nearby field, then turned the steel tip down to cut into the earth. “Now come up on it easy,” he said. “Just push it along, not too hard.”

Keeping pace with him, Octavia edged forward until her chest rested against the back of the wooden frame, then leaned into it with her weight. The harness did slacken a bit—maybe she was helping! Though she had to tilt her chin up to clear the plow’s top, so she had a hard time seeing where she was going.

More than once, she stumbled, but she got right back in place each time. Big Mac was right—the plow didn’t really accommodate this kind of help. No way to see where to place her hooves on the uneven furrows. She kept kicking the back of the blade with her forelegs, and she could already tell the jostling would leave a good number of bruises on her chest.

So of course the smile never left her face. Up and down the rows they went, almost halfway done now, and—Octavia tripped on a clod of dirt, and a rear hoof buckled under her. “Ow ow ow!”

In a flash, Big Mac had wrestled free of the harness and rushed around to where she’d crumpled. “Octavia! Are you alright?” He looked like somepony who’d just realized he closely resembled the face in the wanted poster on the wall… at about the same time the officer next to him did.

“Yes. Please, it’s not your fault.” Octavia rubbed her pastern, but that only made it worse. “Only a sprain.”

She pounded the dirt with a foreleg. “Oh, I’m so clumsy! I feel so useless!”

“No, no, you just ain’t used to it,” he protested. “C’mon. Let me get you set up on the front porch. You can lean back in a rocker and take your weight off that hoof.”

Octavia stood and gingerly took a few steps. Manageable for now, it seemed, but mostly because it had gone numb. She didn’t look forward to how it would feel in the morning. “I think I’m good. Let’s try this again.”

“Nuh-uh.” Big Mac shook his head. “I ain’t takin’ the risk. Hang on a minute.” He ran off to the house, then to the barn, and returned with a brace and a basket of grass seed.

With an apologetic smile, he fastened the brace just above her injured hoof. “Now, follow along and sprinkle some seed in the ruts, if you gotta help. You will be savin’ me time—otherwise, I’d have to go back over it all.”

Octavia shifted a little more weight onto her bad leg and nodded. “Okay. As long as I’m doing my part.”

“See?” Big Mac said. “Finished early, with your help.”

No way. He’d taken a much slower pace, obviously so she could limp along without falling behind. Sweet of him to say, though, and it did feel good to make a contribution.

“Wanna retire down by the pond till dinner?” He leaned a shoulder toward the orchard, as if she could ever forget the way there.

Octavia’s eyes lit up. “Yes, that would be perfect! Hold on, though—I need to get something.”

“Whatcha need, Tavi?” She whipped her head around, and he froze, his eyes wide and his face ashen. “I… I-I mean, Octavia, ma’am. I didn’t mean…”

He swallowed with some difficulty. “It’s just the name I used in my head the last couple weeks, a-and…”

“Oh, we’re back to ‘ma’am’ now?” Despite her broad grin, he’d broken into a sweat and looked as if he awaited imminent destruction. “Big Mac. ‘Tavi’ will do fine. That’s what my friends call me.”

His chest deflated like a balloon, and he swiped a hoof across his forehead. With a chuckle, she made her way back to the house, then returned with her violin case. “This way?” she said, pointing past the barn.

“Eeyup.” Big Mac raised an eyebrow and followed her into the trees, down the hill, and to the pond’s edge.

Octavia took a long drink from the cool water, then lay back against the hillside, the same way she had before. She even wriggled into the long grass a little to make sure she got a few thistles buried in her mane.

He kept a careful eye on her as she unpacked her bow and slid it over a block of rosin. “Cello’s my best instrument,” she said, “but it lacks a little in portability out here.” His eyes did flick toward the dark-stained maple for a second, but they quickly returned to the bow’s hair. A rich charcoal color—did he notice?

“Is that…?”

She guessed she had her answer. “Yep. From my own tail. Turns out I have good hair for bows.”

“Y’know, that works out just right,” Big Mac said with a broad grin. “Tavi, it’s like you’re made o’ music!”

And a full laugh escaped her throat. “I never thought of it like that. You have an interesting way of looking at things!”

“Wind chimes,” he muttered.

“Huh?”

“Your laugh.” Big Mac closed his eyes and sighed. “Reminds me of wind chimes. ’Cept the color, kind of a burgundy red.”

Octavia smiled back, then licked a hoof and rubbed a mark off her instrument. If she couldn’t repay him in labor, she’d repay him in entertainment. Of course, she would have anyway. She’d have played for herself, and she’d certainly play for a friend.

“What am I gonna hear?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She shrugged, even though he still had his eyes closed. “I just thought I’d run through some exercises, then try a few pieces that seem appropriate to the venue. I’m curious to see if they turn out any better, right here at the source of my inspiration.”

Octavia played half a dozen scales, then glanced at him again. He hadn’t budged an inch, except… he’d found a stalk of grass to chew on. Next, a nice Roamanian dance tune. It had been in one of her oldest practice books, and by now, her hooves could play it on automatic. But… it absolutely flowed from her violin. She could feel the swaying, the high-stepping, the invitation to a partner, the nodded acceptance, the dizzying twirls.

As the last note died out, she panted for breath. When had that ever happened before? On this simple a piece? Her tingling spine practically begged her to create that sensation again. Had she been standing, her knees might have given out.

“Mmm, I liked that. Sounded foreign-like,” Big Mac remarked.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice distant, still off in her scene. “I should try something more local.” Octavia waited a moment for her mind to free itself of the cottony web of wherever it had gone. One of his eyelids twitched as if to open, but it stilled as she started into something new.

She played a lilting mountain air, and behind the music, she heard him muttering. “Waterfall… hawk nest up in the rocks, creek winding through a valley…” A rear hoof tapped along with the beat.

Something sounded off, though. She couldn’t put her hoof on what, but—of course! Something sounded too on, not off. Octavia stopped and stood her violin in her lap.

Big Mac looked over with a small frown. “Why’d you quit? I liked that.”

“I just remembered something from the folk music class I took a couple years ago. Hold on.” Octavia gave each of the tuning pegs on her instrument’s neck a fraction of a turn in alternating directions. “It gives the music more of a folksy sound if you detune it a bit.”

She’d only gotten halfway through the melody again when she heard him sit up. Stopping again, Octavia went pale at his open-mouthed stare.

“That was… perfect,” he said. “An old brown cabin on the gray mountainside, dark apples, almost black, in the green orchard…” His jaw worked as if he had more to say, but he only shook his head.

“What’s wrong, Big Mac?”

“I haven’t thought about that place in years. I-I’d forgotten.” He held a hoof to his forehead and wrinkled his brow. “How could I forget?”

Octavia set her violin back in its case and rolled onto her side to face him. “Big Mac, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

“N-nothin’. Fine, fine,” he replied with a wave of his hoof. “I just haven’t thought about my Granny in ages. I really loved her—how could I forget?” His jaw tensed, and his breathing sped up.

“You mean Granny Smith? She’s just up at the house. Do you need her?” Octavia struggled to her knees and started to crawl up the hill, but he gave her good hoof a tug.

“Naw, don’t go! You’ll hurt yourself!” Rolling onto her side, Octavia propped up as best she could and winced. “No, not Granny Smith. It’s just…”

Big Mac let out a sigh and wrinkled his nose as if somepony had slipped a sour cherry into his apple pie. What could have made him so miserable? She slid back down beside her instrument and put a hoof on his shoulder. “You can tell me,” she said, peering into his eyes.

“Granny Smith’s from the Apple side of the family.” Gulping, he brushed his forelock to the side. “My mama’s side. Daddy’s family did grow some apples, too, but they were a minin’ family, up in the Apple-lachian Mountains. Used to spend my summers up there till I was ’bout seven, when Granny Stone… She…”

Octavia gasped quietly and hugged him, the poor dear. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Naw, Tavi. It’s only that I shouldn’t forget. It’s like losin’ her all over again.” A fragile smile shook on his lips.

“Don’t say that.” She gave him a weak swat on the shoulder, but at his questioning glance, she nodded. “She’s still with you, in your memory. She doesn’t have to stay on your mind all the time. We have constant distractions. That’s life, a part of being a pony. You haven’t done anything wrong. Okay?”

After a moment, he gave a tentative nod. “Yeah, I’m fine. You played that so well, it put me right back on that mountaintop.”

“Well, tell me about it. What was she like?”

“Big McIntosh, c’mon in the house for a minute!” Granny Stone called. The old brown mare leaned against the frame of the cabin’s front door.

“Yes, Granny! Comin’!” A scrawny red colt trotted out of the noonday sun and into the shelter of the porch’s tin roof.

She cast a critical eye up and down his wiry frame. “Big McIntosh. Hm. Don’t know why they named you that. Such a skinny thing.” With a high-pitched titter, she dumped the ashes out of her pipe and stuffed a fresh wad of leaves in. Not too many mares could get away with smoking a pipe, but Granny Stone could.

“Maybe they know somethin’ I don’t,” she said, winking her bad eye at him. “Don’t matter. C’mere and give your ol’ granny a hug.”

Big Mac curled a foreleg around her neck. “Whatcha need, Granny?”

“I’m gettin’ ready to bake bread for the week.” An unsteady hoof waved toward the forest. “Be a good colt and gather me some kindlin’ wood. Couple o’ logs from the woodpile, too.”

“Yes’m, Granny.”

“Finish your chores this mornin’?” Settling into a rocking chair, she reached for the pack of matches on the egg crate that served as an outdoor table, then struck one and took a few puffs on her pipe.

“Yes’m,” Big Mac replied, carrying his head high. “I helped Moonstone and Smelter work the iron vein, then we scoured the rust off the car in the number three mine. Then we loaded a wagon with samples from the new silver prospect for assay. I think that’s it.”

Big Mac puffed out his chest, but then his eyes lit up. “Oh yeah, we shored up that old rotten support beam by the entrance.”

Her milky left eye drifting halfway closed, Granny blew a smoke ring. “Good day’s work! You’ll get a pickax cutie mark before long.”

Glancing at his blank flank, he had to smile. But covering where a pickax cutie mark might go—he tugged off his saddlebag and dropped it beside her on the porch. “Got a few garnets and emeralds from the waste rock, too.”

“Heh!” What would she even buy with them? She didn’t want for anything. “Just fetch me that there firewood, and then tell your cousins to take you to the swimmin’ hole. Back in time to buck apples for dinner, though, y’hear?”

She jabbed the stem of her pipe toward him. But even he was old enough to recognize a real softy when he saw one. She’d send those gems off to her great niece at college so she could get some new clothes and “show them city folk they ain’t any more sophisticated than us Stones.”

“Don’t forget,” Granny continued, “it’s a little different buckin’ these here mountain trees. Shallower roots in the rocks.”

“Yes’m, Granny.”

“She sounds sweet!” Octavia said. “I bet you were her favorite.”

“Yeah.” Big Mac blushed and rubbed his nose. “I was the youngest of all the Stone cousins. Least until Applejack came along. But even then…”

Letting the silence close in around them, Octavia watched a fluffy cloud drift by. “Then what?” she finally said.

“We shared somethin’ special.”

“Oh?” She waited until the cloud had sailed behind the barn, then poked him in the ribs. “What was it? If you don’t mind my asking…”

In the cool evening air, Big Mac watched the cooking fire dance against the backdrop of the dark trees. Smelter had brought out a bag of marshmallows while they waited for the vegetables to roast, and after sliding a few of them on skewers, he propped them around the fire’s edge.

The browning, crunchy crust and gooey center… Big Mac licked his lips. Granny Stone wouldn’t yell about spoiling dinner. As long as she got a couple of them, too.

Crackling and popping, the flame sent glowing red flecks of ash spiraling up into the night, and somewhere in the trees, an owl hooted. Every one of them, all outside and crowded around, even some of the neighbors. He had to smile. Just like home, only different. But the same.

He’d rather just watch and listen, so he sat a short distance away, where he could see the firelight on everypony’s faces. But one moved—Granny Stone walked around the ring of stones and plopped down next to him. “Somethin’ wrong, Big Mac?”

“Naw, Granny Stone. Just enjoyin’ the view. Granny Smith’s been teachin’ me to soak up nature all ’round me, back at Sweet Apple Acres, and find that connection to the earth.” He took a sniff of the rich hickory smoke, but not too close—he made that mistake once, and spent the better part of half an hour coughing. “Thought I should keep it up while I was here.”

Granny Stone gave a sharp nod. “Wise mare, that Granny Smith. She knows what’s important. You take heed, now, and you’ll be stronger for it. The magic comes from the earth, y’know.”

“Yes’m.”

“Now c’mon over with the rest of us. Moonstone’s gonna get out his fiddle.”

Mom and Dad hadn’t gotten a lick of musical talent, even though it carried through both sides of the family. So aside from a couple of clumsy lullabies, Big Mac had never heard any music to speak of, not close up. So he absolutely hadn’t expected what he saw.

Threads of color wafted up into the sky from the fiddle, twisting and looping like Granny Smith’s darning needle. They gathered around the instrument, too, and hung there. Mostly brown, and kind of hard to see against the forest, but when Moonstone played up higher, some blues and reds flitted around. One even came near him, and he reached out to touch it.

He didn’t know when Granny Stone had left his side, but she came back out of the cabin with an old hammer dulcimer. Last year or the year before, he’d seen it in the closet and asked about it, but he’d never heard her play. But now she joined in, as smoothly as if she did it every day. A nice harmony, all playing together. Some of the colors clashed, but he didn’t care. Just because two colors didn’t look good together on clothes didn’t mean they couldn’t go side by side on the farm. All those flowers and vegetables and fruits and grain. What went together depended on the context. Sidling up to Granny Stone, he followed the lines of gold and orange and green as they floated up from her dulcimer.

When Moonstone started the next song, Granny Stone sat it out. She bent down to Big Mac’s ear and cocked her head. “You can see ’em, can’t you? The colors?”

“Well, yeah.” Big Mac shrugged. “Hard to miss.”

“You’d be surprised,” she said with a chuckle. “I was wonderin’ where it might show up next. Great aunt o’ mine had it last.”

Big Mac squinted and scratched his head. “Had what last?”

“Never mind. You wanna learn to play?” Granny Stone tapped a hoof against her instrument’s wooden frame. He immediately nodded. “Good! We’ll start tomorrow.”

While she began again, Big Mac leaned into her side and watched the music and the firelight swirl together. Song after song, his eyelids drooped further down. He never did get any marshmallows. Or dinner, for that matter. But he had very colorful dreams that night.

Octavia sat up abruptly, then grimaced and held her injured leg. “She had it, too? Synesthesia?”

“Eeyup,” Big Mac said with a nod and shrug. “Though she didn’t tell me, exactly. I didn’t know it was that unusual till, well, a couple o’ weeks ago. I didn’t catch on to what she said about her great aunt.”

“Genetic, huh?” Octavia grinned. From what she’d seen of him so far, he’d take great pride in inheriting something so unique from family.

“Who can say?”

Octavia had settled into the grass again, but she jerked her head toward him once more. “Wait, you can play an instrument? Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I’m gettin’ to that…”

Granny Stone hummed a note over her pipe stem while tapping one of the strings on her dulcimer with a hammer. “Y’see? It’s the same pitch, but they got different colors, ’cause my voice ain’t the same sound. You won’t even see the same color I do. It’s personal-like.”

Nodding, Big Mac stared at the strings. The one she’d hit had a light tan, like fresh-cut oak. But it had set a few of the other strings vibrating a bit, so some other colors clung to their strings as well.

“You gotta learn which strings are which colors,” Granny Stone continued. “That’ll never change, as long as you keep the same instrument. Get another, and, well, good luck. ’Less you wanna go the boring way and learn to read sheet music.”

Big Mac chuckled. How many times had the traditional way butted up against the practical way of doing things? About a daily occurrence in the Apple Family, he reckoned.

“Here,” she said, pressing one of the hammers into his hoof. “Run it up the whole thing.” He did as asked, drawing the hammer from one end to the other, over all the strings—he gasped. A perfect set of stripes, right inside that frame!

“Do that as often as you need to, till you can picture it in your head, every color.” Taking the hammer she still held, she played a simple tune, and he knew what’d come next, so he stared intently at the colors and the pattern of strings. First one, a grass green, then over three strings, kind of a summer-squash yellow. Over two strings, blue, the same yellow again, too many strings to count, but a darker blue, and so on.

And then his turn. He could only remember the first dozen notes or so, but when he hesitated and looked up at her, she guided his hoof over the rest. And then she whirled her hoof in a circular motion, so he started through again. This time, she played, too, but over a little. Usually four strings to the right, but sometimes only three. He couldn’t figure how she knew when to do three, but it sounded nice.

“That’s harmony,” she said. “We’ll tackle that later, but for now, we’ll leave it that you have to learn which colors go together. Makes for good music, but it’ll mess up your fashion sense.”

He grinned in reply and glanced down at his lack of clothes. “Not like I’ll need it.”

“That’s the spirit!” Granny Stone answered as she tousled his mane. She pointed at the dulcimer again, and Big Mac played a third time. But now she’d added words—the ones his parents couldn’t exactly sing.

“Hush, my sweet, now, and don’t you fret…”

“Interesting way of learning music,” Octavia remarked. “Good thing you can sing, or you’d have trouble calibrating the pitch.”

“Yeah. Granny Stone started me on voice lessons, too. She said I couldn’t get one without the other.” He flashed a half-smile and raised an eyebrow.

Octavia shot him a smirk. “Multiple instruments. I’m liking her better already.”

“Yeah…” His smile slowly faded, and he let out a sigh. And something returned to his eyes. She’d thought it was only nostalgia before, but now… Her heart sank.

“You don’t play anymore, do you?” She softened her smile.

Big Mac shook his head. “My fourth and last summer there. And Applejack’s first.”

Big Mac hadn’t gotten his dulcimer lessons for the past five days. Each morning, he unpacked it from its case in the closet and set it up. And then waited. But each morning, Cousin Smelter would say Granny Stone wasn’t feeling well, and he’d have to wait until tomorrow. Always tomorrow.

She hadn’t come out to cook dinner or ask him to do chores or anything. Moonstone and Smelter both just sat at the table and flipped through the newspaper or stared out the window. Weren’t they even going to work the mine today?

Shoving out a sharp breath, Big Mac set his hammers down and strode toward Granny Stone’s room, but Moonstone blocked his path. “Not now, Mac. The doctor’s in there with her. Let them be.”

He hadn’t seen a doctor come in, and he’d gotten up at first light. Did he show up during the night? Sneak in the back way?

If nopony else wanted to keep this place running, at least he would. He stalked out the door, and with a curious glance, Applejack put down her dolls and trotted after him. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Gonna do some minin’.” He held his pace steady and didn’t look back. Maybe she’d lose interest—four-year-olds didn’t exactly belong in mines, anyway.

“Can I help?”

“You ain’t strong enough.” Big Mac winced at a loud crack and turned to see the tree she’d bucked over. Trees had shallow roots up here in the rocks, but yeah, Granny Smith had made quite an apple bucker out of her…

“Am so.”

He ran a hoof down his muzzle. “Don’t matter. You’re a girl.”

“So?”

Without answering, he trotted on, the rhythm of a short stride behind him the whole way. Six miles through the woods, then into the mine. Who knew how far down—the shaft spiraled, making it tough to gauge distance. He peeled off after a short while, though. Without help, he didn’t want to work any of the deeper veins, or he’d never get a full mine car tugged back out again. So he turned at the first branch, grabbed a torch off the wall, and followed the passage to the end.

Empty mine car, rack of tools, all left where they should be so a pony could get right to work. He stuck the torch in a wall bracket, grabbed a pickax, and took a mighty swing at the wall. Not so scrawny anymore. Granny Stone used to call him that, but always with a gentle smile. Not this year, though. A fresh cutie mark, and he’d even grown almost as big as Dad already.

Applejack scratched a hoof at the wall. “Can I help?” Strong legs or no, she wouldn’t be able to swing a heavy ax with her mouth.

“You’re doin’ fine. Just keep at it.” When he had enough rubble dislodged, he gathered up the small boulders and dumped them in the mine car, then went back to work. And beside him, Applejack carefully scooped up the small dust pile she’d made, stretched up as high as she could, and poured it into the car’s bin. If he wasn’t so determined to stay in a rotten mood, it would have been one of the cutest things he’d ever seen.

“What do you do with this?” she asked, peering over the steel edge and pulling herself up for a better view.

“Get the metal out,” he muttered through the pickax’s handle.

Applejack shoved her hat back so she could see again. Way too big for her, but Mom had made her bring it. “How you know there’s metal?”

“Test for it in town. Plus you can see silvery bits in it as you dig. Lose sight o’ those, and you gotta dig in another direction.” She only wrinkled her brow. Always more questions with that one. He’d come up here to work and learn music, not to be a foalsitter.

“How do you get it out?”

Sighing, Bic Mac set his pickax down. “You gotta bake it, real hot.”

Her face brightened, and she clapped her hooves together. “Oh, in the oven?”

“No. We ain’t got one that goes hot enough. Takes a special kind.” He wiped the sweat off his brow, and then—he didn’t like the way she squinted at the car. He took a wild guess as to what she’d say next.

“Why?” Bingo.

“Look, you said you wanted to help.” She gave him a vigorous nod. “Talkin’ ain’t helpin’.”

Within a couple of hours, he’d filled the car and towed it back to the entrance, but… no way he could get it down the mountainside without one of his cousins’ help. Too steep and too far. So he set the brake, threw a tarp over the top, and tied it off. Finally, he put the torch head-down in the sand pile just inside the mine. Might as well go back home. Long past lunch now, and a small miracle that Applejack hadn’t gotten cranky about it.

He didn’t mention food on the trot back home, and if she heard his stomach growling, she didn’t let on. But when he came within view of the front porch, Smelter shouted to him. “Where have you been?” Smelter looked like he’d seen a ghost.

“Workin’ a bit at the mine. Seems I wasn’t gonna get anything useful done otherwise.” He shrugged and shooed Applejack on toward the house.

“Big Mac, I…” Smelter only shook his head.

The next day, the family buried Granny Stone in the family plot, not far from the house, on a pretty overlook of the river winding through the valley below. Against the darkening sky, Big Mac watched the little filaments of color float up from Moonstone’s fiddle. The tune—that old family lullaby that Big Mac’s parents used to sing before he outgrew it, and that Granny Stone had taught him to play. Kind of an odd choice for a funeral, but… it kinda fit, too.

Applejack sang along, far too loud for the occasion, but everypony only smiled at her. Quietly, Big Mac walked the short distance back to the house and returned with the dulcimer. Moonstone was still playing, and soon the tender sound of hammer-struck strings accompanied him.

Big McIntosh looked away. “I haven’t played since.”

Frowning, Octavia shook her head. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have pried.”

“Naw, you didn’t do any harm.”

“It’s just…” Octavia gulped. She hadn’t gauged how to handle this well yet. “Don’t you think you should? Play, that is. It meant a lot to her, to teach you that. You shouldn’t keep it hidden.”

He shrugged and pursed his lips. “I know. I tried once, a few years back. Couldn’t do it.”

“Those kinds of things need to be appreciated, Big Mac. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad with somepony else there. I’ll play with you.” He looked at the ground and blinked. If she pushed too hard, he might shut the door. Not hard enough, and he’d brush it off. “That is, if you have the dulcimer here. I assume you brought it back with you—nopony else deserved it more.”

“Yeah, in my room.”

Octavia waited another moment to watch his posture. Nothing signifying that the conversation had come to an end. “Can we go and get it? I’d love to see…”

He sighed. “Sure.”

Immediately, she rolled over and touched his shoulder. “Only if you’re certain you want to share that with me. You don’t have to.”

“Only fair. You shared so much with me, through your music.” He covered her hoof with his own, then led the way back to the house and up to his room. She limped along with her violin—she doubted it would get stolen here, but it still didn’t sit right with her to leave it out in the orchard.

From the bottom dresser drawer, Big Mac pulled out a richly stained dark walnut case and opened it to reveal a trapezoidal instrument in a light birch hue. A pair of matching hammers lay next to it.

Octavia gasped. She reached out a hoof and tentatively plucked one of the strings—what a wonderful resonance from such a well-worn and chipped antique! “Wow, that’s a lovely sound. You should rub some oil into it to moisturize the wood. I bet you could get it looking beautiful.”

Nodding slowly, Big Mac shut the case again.

“Come on. Let’s go back out by the pond. Nopony will hear,” she urged him as she took his hoof. “Give it a try.”

“I dunno.”

“I won’t make you.” She smiled softly and looked at the floor. If she didn’t watch him, maybe he wouldn’t feel pressured.

Big Mac nodded and took the stand out of the drawer as well. They slowly made their way back to the hillside, as much for his unwieldy cargo as her injury. But when they’d returned to their shady spot, he just sat in the grass, with one of those “what do I do now?” grins that she’d often see on beginners’ faces.

“Play me the lullaby, if you would,” Octavia asked gently. He gulped and nodded, then set up his instrument on its stand while she got her violin back out. And then he ran a hammer up all the strings and stared intently at them. Of course—he had to refresh his memory of the colors after all this time. He hummed some tones and adjusted the tuning of a few strings.

And he played.

A simple melody, but musicality comes through independently of a piece’s difficulty. Rusty, yes, but he was no beginner. Very pretty, enchanting even—not a tune she’d heard before, but she picked it up quickly. By the second verse, he’d added a skillful harmony. And on the third, she joined in as well, on the melody at first, but then she branched out into more rustic ornamentations.

Big Mac had closed his eyes, and he swayed along with the tempo. A few missed notes, but nothing serious. He was picking this back up amazingly well. She kept watching, and the tightness in his cheeks gradually lessened, leaving only a gentle smile. To think that he would share something so personal with her… It made her nose tingle, and she had to brush at it with a hoof when she had a brief moment. At her eyes, too…

And then her ears pricked at a new sound. His, too, toward the house. Applejack? She must have heard them, and over the breeze rustling through the branches, Octavia detected a fine alto.

“Hush, my sweet, now, and don’t you fret,

The day is gone, and the sun has set.

Lay your head down and say good night,

Till you see bright mornin’ light.

“No more sorrow, no more pain,

Stay in my arms till you wake again.

Go to sleep, cast off your fears,

Dream of me and dry those tears.

“Darlin’ snug, all bundled in tight,

Moonbeams bathe you in heavenly light.

“Hush, my sweet, now, and don’t you fret,

The day is gone, and the sun has set.

When you see the new sun appear,

Know I’ll always love you, dear.”

Applejack knew it too? Of course, their parents had sung it to them.

Big Mac was right—it just fit for Granny Stone, even at a funeral. What a beautiful song! Octavia would have to file that one away for later. In fact—her mind boggled with possibilities. She loved the folk music class she’d taken, and if she could collect music like this, promote it more…

And him, sitting over there. He sniffled a little, but he wore a warm smile. She’d never felt such a connection with another pony before, had somepony let her into his life like that. He was staring at her, and a blush had overtaken his face.

And the dinner bell rang.

Octavia didn’t want to move, but she knew how things had to run on a schedule around here. Now wasn’t the time to push Big Mac further out of his comfort zone. She stood and brushed a bit of the debris from her mane. Oh yeah, she’d deliberately gotten some burrs in there…

Without her having to ask, he stepped over to pick through her mane, working his way up her neck again. That wonderful feeling, all the tension draining from her withers. She could stay like this forever, but yes, dinner was waiting. And so it stopped, like it had to.

She turned her head to thank him, but he just stood there, so close. Blushing.

Octavia closed her eyes, leaned in, and kissed him. She hoped he’d spit out the burrs already, but really, she didn’t care. She pressed in and felt his warm breath on her muzzle, smelled hay and apples on his coat. She shifted her weight off her throbbing pastern, but she didn’t stop.

The dinner bell rang again.