Every night, she came back and couldn’t think of a single word to say. She would form incredible dialogues in her mind, concise, beautiful, elegant words to the only pony she had ever cared about. Every day while counting her quills at work, Lyra imagined what she would write. “Dear Bon-Bon,” it began, and then stopped in a sea of blank paper. It had sat there for six months unsullied by the touch of any quill as Lyra stared at it night after night, unsure of what to write. The letter lay on a table, carefully balanced atop stacks of books, crisp packets, socks and mysterious stains. She knew she was kidding herself of course. It was still light outside she could eat her dinner, finally write that letter, and then go to bed. “It’ll do…” she muttered to herself as her horn sparkled with magic, lifting the red-hot tray into the air to follow along beside her as she trotted back to what could charitably be called her ‘sitting room’. With a grumble, Lyra jammed the fork into her ‘meal’. Eating ready-meals from the market alone in the house was no substitute for real company. It was only recently that Lyra had begun to realise how much she’d needed Bon-Bon: cooking for her, picking up after her, being there for her. This had never happened when Bon-Bon lived there. “Oh come on!” Lyra threw her head back in frustration at the utter failure of her culinary exercise. The prongs of the fork broke through the black crust and hit ice crystals. She looked down at the blackened charcoal mass that sat in its foil tray and hesitantly prodded it with a fork. The kitchen! This was enough to rouse Lyra from her temporary stupor, leaping onto the floor and wading hoof-deep through the litter that covered her sitting room until she was coughing and spluttering in front of the oven, doing her best to wave away the smoke as she extracted the remains of her dinner. From underneath the rubbish that sprawled across the carpet there came a worrying rustling, and out of the kitchen wafted an acrid, burning smell. The “Lodger Needed” sign lay on the sideboard, once more Lyra decided that she could put it up “tomorrow”. That had always been Bon-Bon’s job.īeside her, the sofa was empty as it had been for the past six months. At some point, Lyra thought, she’d have to have a clear-up. After that, her life had continued with slightly more purpose: get up, go to work, count quills (even though there weren’t that many quills to count in the first place), go home, eat dinner, go to bed, repeat.Īs she drained the last drops of flat fizz from her bottle, Lyra threw it into the middle of the room where it landed with a crunch on top of the mounds of rubbish that covered the carpet. Davenport knew it, which is why he’d given her the job of Quill Clerk at his ‘Quills and Sofas’ store.
She was letting herself go: she knew it, everypony knew it. Then she would go home, plant her hindquarters in the worn dimple in her favourite sofa, and spend the rest of the evening alone. First thing in the morning until late afternoon, she had curled up on her favourite seat and watched the world go by, reliving happier times. That was what Davenport had said to her almost five months ago now when he’d noticed she had been sitting on the same bench in the park every day for the past four weeks. The words continued to echo in Lyra’s mind as she slumped against her sofa, slurping down the remains of a week-old bottle of soda. Login Home Is Where The Harp Is by Blueshift
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