A puppet to Her fame

Act 2

I recall equal parts blurred vision and smug satisfaction when I awoke. My first thought was to examine myself for injury. My second was to aim away from the bed as I vomited. My head ached, and despite however long I had been asleep, I was still drowsy.

I considered this a victory. As cruel as she was, my mother never lost control. I had to have hit a sore spot with her to make her knock me out that suddenly. My throat was aching and my head was pounding. I idly watched the clock while drifting in and out of sleep.

Orchestra practice was at six. Around five I was awake long enough to realize how hungry I had become. I did not look forward to making a trip to the kitchen. Once my body had recovered from the nausea, I got out of bed and approached the door. It creaked slightly as I pushed the door open enough to glance out into the hallway. My parents were not in sight, and my goal was to keep it that way. Quickly and quietly, I made my way to the kitchen.

Each short hallway felt like a trap, yet I managed to make it to the kitchen unnoticed. The chef was preparing some daisy sandwiches.

I approached him quietly and submissively. My hunger was too great to risk upsetting the stallion with half a dozen sandwiches in front of him. "May I?"

"Glad to see you up. Take as many as you want," he said.

"Thanks." I scooped up a few sandwiches. "You know, ponies aren't usually nice to me. What's your motive? What do you get out of it?"

He stood in silence for a moment, averting his gaze. "You remind me of somepony. I failed them, and have to live my life being reminded of that failure everyday. Helping you makes it feel better."

I stood there in silence for a moment. "You know, I wish I had grown up with earth pony parents like you." I turned and exited the kitchen.

It was a relief to make it back to my room and eat in peace. After finishing my meal, I saw I had about twenty minutes left to compose some music. A jubilant violin and cello duet was playing non-stop in my head. If there was time, I would have listened to the beautiful song all night. My mind needed to be clear to play my cello tonight, so I composed it and would enjoy the duet later.

I hastily scribbled the staccato eighth notes for the violin onto the page. Below them sat the whole and half notes of a harmonic chord on the cello. Pianissimo, then a crescendo into fortissimo, then a decrescendo back to pianissimo. The music was alive and wrote itself onto the page. The technical terms of my craft are meaningless to one who could feel the music flowing through her veins.

My hooves glided across the page until I heard a knocking at my door. I stopped scribing my work and felt twinges of pain shoot up from my hooves. Ignoring my urge to continue writing, I managed to pull my forelegs back under my control. I walked to the door expecting to find my mother, and was relieved to see the butler.

"It's time for concert practice, m'lady," he said flatly.

It tickled me each time he called me that. His professionalism truly knew no bounds. I'd often suspected that for all the occasions I had given him a hard time, he might have gone so far as to ask my father to punish me. He seemed neutral enough to dispel such notions.

I began to walk out the door and he stopped me. "Your cello."

"I left it at the theater," I replied.

"No, it is right there." He pointed with a hoof to my cello stand.

"Oh." Just as he had indicated, my maplewood cello sat neatly on its stand in the corner. I went over and placed it into its case and strapped it on my back. My mind must have been too focused on composing to realize it had been brought back by the butler.