Octavia had to chuckle as she looked over the plates on the table in front of her. She and Big Mac would most often join in the big family meals at Sweet Apple Acres, but on a few occasions, she’d convinced him to let her buy lunch in town, especially if he had to run an errand there anyway. And so they sat at the same cafe where they’d had their first date, what, three months ago already? She wouldn’t have called it that at the time, but now…

On her plate, a watercress and cucumber sandwich. On his, black-eyed peas, butter beans, collards drowned in vinegar, fried okra, and some variety of corn he called “silver queen.” She had to admit, the corn tasted rather sweet, but she found the beans and peas pretty bland, the collards too bitter, and the okra just plain slimy. He’d made her try every one—part of her education, no doubt—but some things about the city would never leave her. A nice sandwich, a seaweed and rice roll with some pickled ginger on the side, a scoop of basil ice cream… that’d suit her fine, thanks very much for asking, though she couldn’t exactly find that kind of fare here in Ponyville.

Two ponies a couple of tables over shared a hushed whisper and pointed. Octavia merely went back to her sandwich, but not Big Mac. He never failed to notice the surreptitious glances, and just like every other time—she braced herself. Soon enough, he hooked a foreleg around her neck, pulled her into a hug, and flashed a broad grin at the spectators. She did appreciate the spontaneous and heartfelt attention, except… how spontaneous was it, exactly? She’d meant to talk to him about it, but the right time never seemed to come up. Maybe later. Always later.

“So, remember I have to go back to Canterlot again tomorrow,” she said once he’d released his death grip on her withers. “That three-week concert series.”

“Eeyup,” he replied. “Least you ain’t travelin’ this season.”

Yeah, good thing, that. If she thought two weeks last year had been torture, she didn’t relish the prospect of spending nearly four months away. And that had only been an infatuation. Now… well, she could visit nearly every week. And somehow, that little thrill that ran up her back every time the Ponyville train station or carriage depot came into view hadn’t ever diminished.

“Your room’ll still be waitin’ when you get back,” Big Mac continued. As usual, he said an awful lot with few words. In fact, he often said the most in silence.

“My room? The guest room, you mean.” No use arguing, but she liked the definitive head shake he always gave her for that one.

“Nope.”

She laughed out loud, which invited a few more glances and whispers from the other patrons, then kissed him on the cheek before draining the rest of her lemonade. “Shall we? Still have some chores to do.”

“You know you don’t have to, Tavi. You’re our guest.” Big Mac said that every time without fail. And every time, he didn’t wait for an answer, since he already knew it.

“Pastern feeling better?” he asked as he flinched toward the stack of bits she left on the table. He used to protest, but he already knew that answer, too.

“That was months ago.” She could say that, at least, but she couldn’t hide her slight limp.

He smirked and rolled his eyes toward her. “Just checkin’. Takes a while to heal sometimes.”

A beige pony stepped in front of them, forcing Big Mac to stop short. “Trouble you for a photo?” he said. As always, Big Mac nodded, donned his massive smile, and pulled Octavia to him in a hug. No need to play the spoil sport—she went through her usual instantaneous debate: Hug him back? Smile with him? She hated to accommodate those leeches, but she didn’t want to appear unhappy with Big Mac in whatever pictures they took.

She wasn’t quite sure what expression had settled onto her face by the time she heard a few rapid clicks. Not that it mattered. She hustled Big Mac along until they’d gotten out of town and on the road back to the farm. “You don’t have to do what they ask, you know.”

“Hm? Just some traveler wantin’ a picture of a happy couple, I expect,” he replied, adding a little extra spring to his step. Sometimes, she wished she could turn off her cynicism like that. He always said it made him proud to be seen with her, after all.

“No, he was one of the society page photographers from the Canterlot Times.” Big Mac could feign ignorance, but no way he really didn’t recognize the guy, mugging for the camera like that. Let him have a bit of fun, but it did start up that little voice in the back of her head. “You’ll be in the newspaper again.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t say?” And then a shrug. “Why’s that?”

So insightful about some things and naive about others. “Do you know how famous I am? In certain circles, anyway, but enough to garner the occasional tagalong.” She really shouldn’t let them get to her like that—it put her in a bad mood, and she didn’t want to take that out on Big Mac.

“Really?” he said, wrinkling his brow. “I s’pose Rarity knows you, and that ain’t small potatoes.”

Great. And now she felt like an idiot. It’s not like she’d even care that much if he was a little starstruck, but… True, when they’d first met at the concert, he didn’t know her from the next pony. So she’d spent the last few weeks worrying about nothing, and now she felt like a great big idiot to boot. Perfect. “You’re better than I deserve,” she said as she leaned into his warm side.

“Couldn’t be,” he replied. She didn’t even remember when they’d started up that little exchange, but it was their thing now, and it always brought a sparkle to his eye.

“So what do you have left for the day?” Octavia bumped a shoulder into his ribs.

“Standard fall stuff. Winterize the gear, chop firewood, stow the hay bales. That sorta thing.” Most ponies wouldn’t have smiled about that list. She chuckled and fell into silent conversation with him, watching where his ears pricked, listening herself, and nodding back. If he savored a step in the dirt, she lingered half a second as well and read what she could from the feel of it. Without him, she’d miss so much.

She nuzzled his neck and continued trotting along beside him. For a moment, she considered breaking into a full gallop and grinning back as he tried to catch up. But only for a moment.

After a nice afternoon in the garden, Octavia stood by the barn and swirled her currycomb over her coat. Durned if she didn’t find it working out dried-on mud better than her brush would. And durned if she didn’t find herself using the word “durned.”

As much as the Apples prided themselves on hospitality, she’d finally worn them down into letting her take responsibility for something around the farm whenever she visited, and they let her manage the flower garden and small vegetable patch for the family’s own use. It turned out she was pretty good at it, but not nearly as fast as Applejack. Still, if it meant saving Applejack the trouble, it was well worth it. In this fall weather, she didn’t have many flowers to tend anymore, but quite a few new vegetables ripened each day.

Octavia gave herself a good hose-down and turned the spigot off, then jumped when she saw Applejack slink around the corner. Why the stealth? It was her garden, after all.

Applejack flashed a weak smile and glanced around. “Hey, um… Nice day, huh?”

“Yeah…” She’d never known Applejack as one for small talk. So, torture her a bit or throw her a lifeline? “Alright. Out with it.”

Her eyes flicking around again, Applejack pursed her lips. “Look… it’s been months now. Big Mac kissed you yet?”

“Applejack!”

“S-sorry. I…” Applejack shook her head and turned to leave.

“Yes. Well… actually, I kissed him. But yes.” She sculpted her smile carefully. Warm, reassuring, but not triumphant or playful. “A while ago.”

Applejack scratched her head. “Well, I thought so, but…”

Gathering up her tools, Octavia stayed quiet. She just needed to give Applejack space to work out what to say. She sure was a lot like her brother sometimes.

“I ain’t ever seen y’all kiss.” She wrinkled her forehead, and then her face turned bright red. “Not that I wanna. I mean…”

Applejack stamped a hoof, and it was all Octavia could do to keep from laughing. “I don’t want y’all to feel self-conscious,” Applejack finally said. “We’re all plumb tickled ’round here that y’all found each other. Don’t go thinkin’ you gotta act a certain way to avoid makin’ us uncomfortable.”

“Oh, no, Applejack!” Octavia waved a hoof at her. “I don’t—”

“Look, I know it’s prob’ly Big Mac more’n you, but I can’t exactly talk about this stuff with him.” She craned her neck to see around Octavia, but Big Mac had actually come up behind her.

“Talk about what?” he said, and the color drained from Applejack’s face as she fought for something to say.

“Nothing,” Octavia replied. “Just girl talk.”

“I can go…” Big Mac pointed a hoof back the way he’d come.

Octavia started toward the barn door to put her tools away. “No, I was just finishing up. You want to play some music by the pond today?” Big Mac’s eyes brightened, and Applejack let out a held breath.

“Eeyup.” She was probably the only pony who could coax him to do anything other than work while the sun was still up.

Nodding to Applejack, Octavia hooked a foreleg over Big Mac’s neck, at least as high as she could reach, and planted a kiss on his cheek. And winked. Maybe at him, maybe at Applejack. Then she started toward the house to get her violin.

“You ever hear of Percy Ranger?” Octavia said.

Big Mac paused for a moment to scratch his head, then continued playing. “Can’t say as I have. Why?”

“Austailian composer. He wrote down a lot of folk melodies.” Big Mac gave a thoughtful nod but didn’t respond. “He’d hang around taverns, streets… wherever ponies gathered. They’d sing whatever local tunes they knew. Of course, your average bar patron doesn’t have much of a sense of rhythm or pitch. But he wrote it down, exactly as they sang it.”

She hummed back the last line he’d played to herself, then scratched out some more of the song on her sheet of paper. Next time through, she’d ask him to add the words. “It makes it a lot more difficult for the performers, what with all the quirks he had to accommodate. But if not for him, a lot of those songs might have gotten lost to time. He wasn’t the only one, of course, but it just made me think of him.”

It had started about a month ago. The more music she’d teased out of him, the more she realized he had a wealth of it in his head that may well be so specific to that little patch of Apple-lachia that nopony else would know it. She’d never heard half of the songs herself, and while most sounded like children’s rhymes—no surprise, given when he learned them—a few were hauntingly beautiful and rather sophisticated. And of the ones she did know… well, “Simple Gifts” had always sent a chill up her spine, but never quite like when he sang it. When somepony really put his soul into the words because he believed them to his core…

One or two more times through to get the words right, then she’d pick up her instrument and join in. They’d even go past dusk, what with the sun setting earlier and earlier these days. In fact, she’d better get these verses down while she still had enough light to see the page.

The last period stabbed into the paper, Octavia leaned back against the hillside and rubbed some rosin into her bow. It was getting a tad frayed—maybe she should clip some more hair from her tail soon.

“Big Mac, have you ever noticed that most musicians are earth ponies?” In the rapidly darkening orchard, she couldn’t read his face, but she did see him turn toward her.

“Hm. Naw. I guess I’ve met ponies of all types who can sing, but instruments? I s’pose you’re right.”

“Seems unicorns would do better at manipulating the strings, keys, or whatever. But they don’t, for the most part.” She shrugged, not that he’d notice.

He hadn’t stopped playing, and she joined in quietly. “Pegasus ponies got weather to worry ’bout,” he replied, “and unicorns got fancy stuff to do with their magic.”

“Yeah, but we have our own unique demands on our time. And all ponies would have to have the same questions about the world that music helps to answer. There’s no shortage of unicorn sculptors or pegasus painters, for example.” He didn’t answer. She actually wondered if he had some deep-seated wisdom on the subject. “I mean, those unicorn sculptors use stone, bronze, whatever. So it’s not related to a connection with the materials. Earth ponies would know stone better.”

“I always thought,” he started, but then took a long pause. She silenced her instrument and turned toward him. The dinner bell would ring soon, anyway. “Art’s s’posed to represent somethin’ else, right? Like you see a landscape painting, but then you gotta figure out what the artist meant by it. Or you read a novel, but then you gotta figure out what ain’t written. Music… gets right at it. No middle step. Direct. Kinda fits the earth pony mindset. Singin’s different, ’cause it’s still like writin’. But instruments…”

Deep-seated wisdom, alright. He sure had a way of seeing something trimmed down to its basics. “I always thought,” Big Mac repeated. “That don’t make me right.” Octavia grinned in the darkness.

She packed up her instrument, stuffed her music sheets in one of the case’s pockets, and felt around in the grass for her pencil. The whole time, he’d sat up, but she’d lain back in the grass. Not too long, since somepony had mowed it, but with any luck, she had some burrs stuck in her mane. Right on cue, she felt him grooming her. So she gave him a minute, then she turned to intercept his mouth with her own.

And right on cue, the dinner bell rang.

“Any more songs floating around in your head?” Octavia asked. They’d sung through a couple of their favorites, but no instruments today. Big Mac didn’t like the prospect of setting up that wooden stand in the snowdrift, and he couldn’t imagine she’d want her violin out here, either. Thing was probably more expensive than a year’s apple harvest, and air this dry didn’t do wood any favors.

He shrugged. “Dunno. Might have a few turn up later, but you got the last one I could think of yesterday.” Her singing voice actually surprised him a bit. He’d always figured somepony who could play an instrument could sing, too, but he guessed there wasn’t really a reason to assume that. Different talents, after all. And she had a thin voice that struggled to stay on key at times.

Didn’t matter, though. Still that beautiful burgundy color.

“Thanks for those,” she said, leaning over with an invitation for a kiss, which he accepted readily. She tapped him on the forehead. “You never knew you had such a wealth of music up there, did you?”

“Nope.”

She took his forehoof in both of hers and kissed him again. “I’ve been thinking, Big Mac. I’d like to organize a folk music festival.”

Octavia had been on about that lately. The music, anyway, but he hadn’t reckoned she’d want to make a big event out of it. He just watched and waited for it to pass. A sophisticated artist like her? No way she’d give up the time from her real music. He liked a good hoedown as much as the next yokel, but it was comfort music, not… impressive.

“Don’t you give me that look!” she said, the twinkle in her eye at odds with her scowl. “Folk is such a beautiful art form, and it’s the root of all the music you’d call fancy, too.”

He wished he could figure out how she did that. “I didn’t mean…”

“I know. I’ll never give up my classical. But I want to add this to the repertoire.” She rolled against his side and raised an eyebrow at his snickering. “What?”

“You’re a beautiful art form,” he said. He gave her mane a tousle, but not too hard—he knew better than to mess up a mare’s hairdo.

She jabbed a hoof at his ribs. “Oh. Big Mac, you know I love you, but I’m serious.”

Big Mac froze, and his nerves buzzed. Did she say…?

He gulped and forced a smile. A pony couldn’t just leave that hanging out there. Answer too fast, answer too slow, shrug it off… any of those could spell disaster, and he cared too much to make a false step—

Don’t overthink it. If any piece of advice had served him well, that was it. She liked him for it, and it’d run the Apple family for generations. He closed his eyes and pictured the elegant gray and black, with the burgundy voice. And he knew. Down under all the complications and distractions, he could just sit here with those colors—that mare—forever. He’d already thought it anyway, thought it without thinking, a reflex action: he cared too much.

Why did it feel like such a surprise? Always there, underneath it all, the warmth that said he belonged right here, beside her. He wouldn’t have seen it if he hadn’t opened his eyes.

Big Mac hugged her closer. “I love you too, Tavi.” She rested her head on his shoulder and sighed the kind of sigh he might on the last day of the harvest. All the work done, all the effort paid off. Time to let all the good things roll in from it.

For all he knew, they stayed there for hours. Hours, under the gray sky, with little white clumps of snow plopping out of the trees around them. And black and gray in his hooves. All the color he needed.

A right pretty shade of burgundy finally cut into the silence. “So, about the festival… What do you think?”

“Couldn’t hurt. How many ponies you think’d really come, though?”

“You’d be surprised.” She raised her head up to look him in the eye. “All types—those that live where it’s the predominant kind of music, ones who see cultural value in it. And of course the crowd who finds it the trendy thing to do this week.”

Big Mac wrinkled his nose. “Yeah…”

“Oh, don’t be so hard on them. A lot of art succeeds because of them, even though there’s a lot of luck involved.” Octavia brushed a hoof across his cheek. “You didn’t go to my concert with any nobler intentions, as I recall.”

He scowled at her and shook his head. “Not the first one, no. But in all the ones since…”

“I know. And if a few of the uppity types learn to appreciate what they hear like you did, then isn’t that a good thing?” She cocked her head and grinned like she’d won, which of course she had. “So, who can we get to perform?”

“Well, you.”

With a snort, she glared back at him. “Thank you, Miss Smarty Pants.”

“You said you wouldn’t—!”

“I’m sorry,” she answered, a sheepish smile dangling on her face. “Of course I will, but I don’t want to overshadow everything. I’ll only play one or two things, and other that that, I’ll just emcee.”

Whatever suited her. “Sounds fine,” he replied, shrugging.

“Back to the question of who we should invite to perform, then.” Octavia rubbed a hoof over her muzzle. “I can probably ask a few of the ponies from the orchestra, but that creates the same problem where the public might find it too highbrow and inaccessible. It’s that first crowd I want, the ones who live this music daily.”

“Sweetie Belle’s a helluva singer,” Big Mac said, but he shook his head. “Naw, never mind. You’d never get her to. Um… Applejack plays banjo, and she taught Spike some. He can also play drums a little. Granny Smith plays washboard—”

Octavia broke in with a little squeal. “That’s perfect! Spike’s the librarian’s dragon, right?” Getting a nod back, Octavia clapped her hooves together. “Who else?”

“Let’s see… Pinkie Pie can play about any instrument, but don’t ask her for much more’n a polka on it.”

Octavia giggled, but caught herself and raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I’ve met her before. She takes a little getting used to.”

“Wind chimes.”

“Huh?”

Big Mac smiled broadly. “Wind chimes. Your laugh always sounds like—”

“Like wind chimes.” She returned his grin. “Yes, you say that all the time. But don’t stop.”

“Uh…” Big Mac continued, rolling his eyes up. “My cousin Fiddlesticks plays fiddle, o’ course.”

“Oh, she’s your cousin?” He nodded, and Octavia scrunched her face up. “Yes, I’ve played several engagements with her before. Good musician. She’d be a great one to have around. Any more?”

“Cousin Braeburn plays guitar. Oh! And—” he leaned into her and tapped her nose “—you gotta hear Derpy! I mean, I don’t know how such a happy pony can do the blues so well, but she’ll have tears pourin’ down your face.”

Octavia’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, I didn’t realize! I still haven’t met her, you know. A pegasus musician…”

“Yeah. Unless you wanna be the one who tells the roosters to wake up, you’ll miss her. It’ll happen. Give it time.” His smile curled back a decade or more. “She’ll play if we ask her—if she knew what it meant to you.”

The light danced in her eyes for a minute, but he couldn’t tell what had silenced her. “What’s her instrument?” Octavia finally said.

Big Mac flicked a hoof toward town. “She blows a mean harmonica.”

“Really… Hold on…” She jerked her head away from him and let loose with a sneeze. An impossibly cute, high-pitched sneeze, in a nice pale blue. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. That was adorable.” Giggling again, she scooted back against him.

He caught himself staring at the sky, then noticed her squinting at him. “Is there something I should know?” she asked.

“Naw, just… Derpy and I have an unusual kind of friendship, I guess. Hard to explain.” Her squint narrowed, and he waved a hoof at her. “Not like that, though. You shoulda seen her grin whenever she’d bring one o’ your postcards in the mail.”

“I know. You’ve told me that before. You don’t talk about her much, though.” And she’d stopped looking him in the eye…

Big Mac brushed at the grass. “Yeah. I kinda miss her.” When Octavia didn’t say anything, he looked up to find her watching him closely. “No, no—”

“You’ve told me that, too,” she said with a chuckle. “I know, ‘like a sister.’ It’s alright.” She smiled, but she had her jaw set. Still in business mode, then.

“Should prob’ly have some ponies from the Crystal Empire play flugelhorn,” he said. Better get back on topic.

“Yeah, good idea.” Octavia’s face lit up. “Hey what about the Ponytones?”

“More of a pop sound, but I s’pose we could. I think we know a couple o’ barbershop quartet tunes.” One came to mind immediately, anyway, and he started whistling it through his teeth.

Octavia frowned. “Wait, I thought you were a quintet.”

“Well, y’see… How big an audience you expectin’?” Big Mac asked, scratching his head.

“Couple thousand, anyway. Maybe more.”

Fluttershy. In front of a couple thousand staring faces. “Nope. Better make it a quartet.”

Octavia shrugged. “I think we’ll have plenty of acts, then. Only thing left is to decide where to hold it.”

She might as well have told him the world was flat. “Right here at Sweet Apple Acres. I can build a stage in one o’ the empty fields, and we can have smaller stuff goin’ on in the barn. Meet the musicians, and the like. I hear tell good things can come of the audience gettin’ to talk to the performers…”

Octavia batted a hoof at him and shook her head. “Folk music festival, not matchmaking service. Anyway, I was hoping you’d want to have it here. You’re better than I deserve.”

“Couldn’t be,” he said as he curled his neck around to kiss her. He never got there—

“You’ll play your dulcimer with me, too, of course.”

“Huh?”

Big McIntosh paced around behind the stage, his nerves only twitching more with each act that went on. Pinkie’d gone first with… whatever it was she played, followed by the Ponytones. Then Spike, Applejack, and Granny Smith had performed three or four great bluegrass tunes. And he didn’t just think that because they were family—the whole crowd got into it. Big Mac had even forgotten about his impending doom for a minute to sit down and tap a forehoof against his knee. Who knew Spike had gotten so good? Applejack gave him lessons right after lunch, when Big Mac would usually be working, so he rarely heard them.

So proud of his little sis… He’d have wrapped her in a hug when she came off the stage, but then he remembered—he had an hour at best.

Braeburn played some kind of nice ballad, but Big Mac couldn’t really listen. And the Crystal Empire had sent a whole flugelhorn choir! Seventeen of the dang things, in a bunch of sizes! He didn’t know quite what to make of it, but the crowd seemed happy. And the clock ticked on. So, maybe more than an hour to go. The acts were taking longer than he’d expected, so he sneaked away for a bit of a breather.

Too bad he missed the next few: griffon yodelers, a minotaur playing a great big war drum by dancing on it, some Saddle Arabian music that sounded kind of like a chant, and a wonderful group of zebras singing in the prettiest harmonies.

But he didn’t see the colors. A little for AJ, he guessed, but not for the rest. He knew they were there. They had to be. They had to. But everything had gotten so knotted up in his head that he couldn’t pay attention, couldn’t see.

A sharp, reedy sound rang out—Derpy’s harmonica. Big Mac was on next. He wandered back in, sat behind the stage, and closed his eyes. “I won’t make you,” Octavia had said. “You have a gift that deserves to be shared, but it has to be your choice.” Yeah, his choice. He didn’t blame her. Heck, he didn’t know if she even understood.

He sang all the time with the Ponytones. Stagefright had nothing to do with it. He just didn’t know if he could…

Up on the stage, Derpy rocked around on her stool, worked up a sweat, even got airborne as she flashed through a frantic passage, only to end it on a mournful wail that left everypony in silence. Even that bright green sound hanging in the air barely cracked through the fog in his head. Then the applause broke out, and he added his own, but it didn’t last near long enough.

His turn.

He stepped up on stage, carried his instrument to the middle, in full view of everypony, and glanced to the side. Octavia came over from the podium after announcing them—he hadn’t even heard the burgundy—and got her violin back out.

And they played. “Simple Gifts” first, because she loved it so much. His own simple gift to her, he guessed. But he couldn’t enjoy it, not this time. He just kept his eyes fixed on his strings, tried to remember the colors. They looked a little dull, but still there. He could do this.

Walled off, black all around. Only his colors in front of him, and some seeping over from Octavia’s violin. She started to move, too, kind of like Derpy had. Angling her nose up with the high notes, hoof sawing back and forth on those strings as she got more and more elaborate, making it up on the fly. He added a few flourishes as well, but it didn’t seem quite right to go overboard on a song with that title.

Before he knew it, they’d finished, and a murmur started up in the crowd, but Octavia held a hoof up to quiet them. Big Mac gulped.

And she bowed the first verse of that old lullaby. He knew it was coming, but he couldn’t have prepared himself. In the crowd, two or three ponies sang along softly. AJ, maybe Braeburn. A couple others he didn’t know. But their faces—like unexpectedly meeting an old friend they hadn’t seen in years. Applejack even wiped at her cheek.

On the second verse, Big Mac took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and joined in. By feel only. He could remember where to strike each string, even without looking. Sure, he missed a couple notes, but it didn’t matter. Like the last song, Octavia took up a soaring countermelody, and Big Mac obliged as well. He added a harmony and embellished the melody, exactly like Granny Stone had taught him.

He didn’t know how many verses they’d played, but the few in the audience who knew it had run out of words. She slowed up, and he knew what that meant: bring it to a close. And rather than end the whole production with a bang, she’d chosen this song. Send everypony—everyone—home in peace.

Big Mac stood there faintly trembling as Octavia made her way back to the podium. “I hope you all have a restful and serene night. Thank you for attending, and I’d like to make this a yearly thing.” With a gentle nod, she packed up her violin and came back over to Big Mac. He hadn’t budged.

“C’mon. Let’s get over to the barn for the reception. You know what good things can happen at one of those.” Her eyes flashed, and a grin finally cracked the stone of his face. She waited for him to put away his own instrument, then corralled him toward the barn, but as they got near, she tugged him around to the side, in the shadows away from the quarter moon.

“Thank you,” she said, then planted a kiss on his muzzle. “You did great. I know what that meant to you.”

Did she? Maybe. He wasn’t sure he could play that in front of anypony. It was Granny Stone’s song, something for her and him and Applejack. Not for an audience. But he’d done it. He’d done it for her.

“Granny Stone would be proud of you.” She kissed him again, then pulled him toward the front of the barn. “Let’s go. Time to meet your adoring public.”

Adoring, yes. Public, not so much.

“And I’ll finally get introduced to Derpy!” she added. “For real, I mean. We barely had time to say hello to each other during rehearsal before she had to rush off.”

True. And Derpy might even be more excited about that. He’d seen the apologetic looks as she hustled over to Miss Cheerliee’s schoolhouse or home to a family dinner. Not an issue—family came first for him, too.

He tugged Octavia to a stop, wrapped her in a hug, and held her in the darkness for a long time. She didn’t seem to mind. Then he nodded and followed her inside.