Once a month, in the dark of night, Rarity crept out of her house and then through the streets of Ponyville. She wore a hood and overcoat. She carried with her a bulky, heavy suitcase. She stepped lightly and hung close to the shadows. She made sure not to be seen.

Her friends knew nothing of her monthly visits to the witch. She hoped someday they would.

She would go to edge of the Everfree Forest. The Forest was frightful and intimidating in the night. It was quiet. The winds were cold and and silent.

Rarity would go into the Everfree Forest alone. She dragged the suitcase behind her.

On this night, as she navigated the thorns and the brambles, she thought about Sweetie Belle. She had watched Sweetie Belle earlier that afternoon for her parents. Her sister and her sister’s friends had played at being firefighters, and ran about and splashed each other and the house and Rarity’s hydrangeas and Opal with a hose.

There was a simple joy in watching children play, but a kind of sadness, too. It was in seeing someone else possess something you once had, something you’re certain you once understood but now seems far away.

Rarity had loved playing pretend when she was young. What she enjoyed most was the performance of it. That’s what playing pretend really was, and all use of the imagination. It was performance art. To imagine was to make a performance out of yourself and the whole world, and you were the sole audience. Other children might have played with you, but their worlds were never identical to your own, invisible to all but their own eyes.

When she was young, one of Rarity’s favorite games was to play at being a witch.

Of course, Rarity enjoyed the other typical pretend occupations, too, like princess and veterinarian. But as a witch she could be vulgar and mean and powerful and frightening instead of prim and proper for a little while, just for an afternoon.

Now, Rarity heaved the suitcase over a root sticking up out of the ground. The contents rattled and rumbled within. They sounded heavy and soft and moist. She tried to be careful not spoil what was inside.

When she had gotten the suitcase over the branch and started on her way again, Rarity considered that the two very best places to play as a child were woods and empty construction sites.

Woods and constructions sites contained all the right ingredients to make a child’s perfect evening. Limbs and ladders to climb, gaps to jump, bugs to run away from or stomp upon, sticks to swing, rocks to throw, few adults, and often fewer parents.

Most importantly, woods and constructions sites more than anyplace else contained the critically necessary element of danger and mystery.

To be truly exciting, play had to involve some risk and riddle. You needed to be doing something or being somewhere you knew your parents would not wholly approve of. Hazards to dodge or overcome needed to arise. You needed to feel the rush of adrenaline, to be out of breath when you were done, your heart needed to hammer in your chest. If a broken bone wasn’t a possibility, why even bother? There’s a reason children’s bones heal so much more easily than adults’. Children are meant to fracture a leg once in a while.

And for play to be really worthwhile, there needed to be some doubt and wonder at what might be around the next corner. A bear? An angry construction worker? Might this branch break if climbed on? Might this unfinished floor collapse if stood upon? Are there thorns? Are there nails? Where does this tunnel lead? Where does this pipe go? If you knew for certain some monster couldn’t be lying in wait for you on the path up ahead, it wasn’t a path worth taking.

Rarity had always preferred the woods, because the gentle curves of the trees and underbrush were more aesthetically appealing than the hulking broken angles of the brown and gray beams and scaffolds. And because the monsters of nature were so much more terrifying and bizarre and unique and fascinating and beautiful than those manufactured in pony minds.

Rarity had often played alone in the woods.

One night, she found something deep in the Everfree Forest.

She never told anyone. She had been sworn to secrecy.

Once a month, she returned. And she always carried with her a full, heavy suitcase.

---

Sometime later, Rarity arrived at her destination. Her forehead was wet with sweat, her mane and tail tangled. The suitcase was still heavy. There were few occasions for which Rarity was willing to allow her meticulously styled mane to be disheveled. This was one of them.

She had come to a small shack nestled among the twisted limbs of the Everfree Forest. Its wooden walls, cracked and old, leaned to one side. Vines and bushes grew up the wooden planks. Its roof sagged. It had no windows, but a dim light shone through the cracks.

No road led to this shack. It would be nearly impossible to find if one didn’t know precisely where to look.

Rarity dragged the suitcase up to the door.

She lowered her hood and knocked.

She waited.

Sounds of slow movement came from within. The wood creaked.

“Who’s out there?” a sharp, haggard, coarse voice called from within.

“It’s me,” Rarity said.

The door opened. A grey old mare stuck her head outside. A stringy unkempt mane hung over the old mare's eyes. Her gaunt skin held tight to bones whose outlines were easily visible. She looked about and then narrowed her eyes at Rarity.

“You’re late,” the old mare said.

“I’m sorry, Laurel,” Rarity said, even though she wasn’t late. She never had been.

Laurel looked her up and down. One of the old mare’s eyes was dull and clouded and blind. The other was a piercing green. “Were you followed?”

“No.”

Laurel coughed. “Are you certain?”

Rarity nodded. She had never been followed. No one had any reason to follow her. But she had taken the directive seriously as a filly. Then, whenever she came, she had glanced behind her shoulders and ducked behind trees and hidden beneath bushes the whole way. She didn't waste the energy acting overly cautious now, but she still enjoyed playing along.

Laurel's eyes settled on the suitcase. “Is that them?”

“Yes.”

“Well, hurry up and bring it in, then.” Laurel moved aside and coughed again, raspy and dry.

Rarity winced at the sound, but picked up the suitcase and went past her and inside.

The inside of the shack was dark and humid and cramped. It was mostly empty, save for a small cot, a table, and a firepit. It smelled of smoke and sweat.

Laurel closed the door behind her, and Rarity picked up the suitcase and set it on the table. The floorboards beneath her whined with every step.

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Laurel said, coughing again. The sound was harsh and sickly. She walked to the table with a noticeable limp. “See if you’ve finally learned to follow instructions.”

Rarity frowned as she watched. Laurel had always been sloppy and eccentric, but she had also once been fiery and quick, with a wonderful flair for the dramatic. She had brewed potions that mesmerized and dazzled. She had wowed Rarity as a filly, enthralled her with flashy tricks, exciting stories, and secret instructions. But Rarity had learned over time that the tricks were just that, the stories largely false, and the instructions meaningless.

She hadn’t cared so much. She never really believed any of it, but she loved the game, the performance.

But the game had turned into something else now. Laurel had changed.

Her limp was recent.

Her cough was less so.

Laurel clumsily opened the suitcase. She peered close down at the suitcase’s contents with her good eye. She coughed. “What is this?”

“Have you seen anyone about that cough, yet?” Rarity asked.

“I could brew something for it myself,” Laurel said, rifling through the suitcase, “if you’d just bring me what I ask for.”

“And what about your leg?”

Laurel glared at her. “What about it?”

“It’s getting worse.”

“How would you know?”

Rarity kept her voice gentle and calm. “You should have it looked at, dear.”

“And you should learn to keep your ladle in your own pot, dear.” Laurel practically snarled the last word.

Rarity cleared her throat. “I have a friend who could exami—”

Laurel whirled on her. “You remember the oath you swore here in this house, girl, or don't you?”

“Yes, of course I do,” Rarity said. She had long ago promised to never reveal the old mare's whereabouts, and she wasn’t the kind of mare to break promises. She hated old promises, sometimes.

“Never cross a witch,” Laurel said, coughing and turning back to the suitcase. “Who can tell the horrors that might befall you if you do.”

Rarity stayed quiet. She had heard that threat often enough in the past to know it was empty.

“What is this?” Laurel asked again, pushing the suitcase aside. “This isn’t what I asked for.”

“No, it isn’t,” Rarity said evenly. “I brought you something you actually need.”

“This is worthless!” Laurel cried. “Where is the nightshade? Where is the boggart eye?”

Rarity stepped up to the suitcase and began pulling out its contents one by one. “There is no such thing as a boggart. Here is some celery, tomatoes, potatoes, corn, turnips, onions, and carrots, all bought fresh at the market this morning. And these apples were grown on my friend’s apple orchard. They're wonderful. You should try one.”

“What potion could I ever brew with an apple?”

Rarity rolled her eyes. “An apple potion. Or you can just eat them. When was the last time you ate?”

“What business is it of yours?” Laurel coughed and her chest spasmed and heaved.

“It is my business as your friend,” Rarity said.

Laurel looked at her, then looked away. “Fine.”

“You’d like to keep them, then?”

“You can leave them here if you want,” Laurel said, not looking her in the eye.

Rarity took the rest of the fruits and vegetables from the suitcase. “Some warm soup might soothe your throat. Would you mind if I prepared some while I’m here?”

“You can do whatever you want.” Laurel stepped away. “Who you think is gonna stop you?”

Rarity nodded. She gathered together the food and then rummaged around the shack until she found the utensils she would need, the same dull and bent utensils with which she had helped the old witch brew mock potions all those years ago.

Rarity began peeling and cutting the potatoes on the table.

After some time, Laurel stepped up beside her and took a knife and helped peel the potatoes.

Rarity smiled, but kept quiet.

“We’re making boggart’s drought,” Laurel said.

“We’re making vegetable stew.”

Laurel cursed. “Dammit, girl, can’t you just let me be?”

Rarity paused, and then continued. “We’re making boggart’s drought,” she agreed.

They went back to work together, falling into a cordial rhythm. Rarity remembered all the times she had stood beside Laurel as a filly and watched fascinated as the witch prepared for her some wondrous brew, how excited she had felt when asked to help.

After a while, Laurel began to enjoy herself. She talked Rarity through a list of preparations for boggart’s drought. The potatoes became dwarves’ feet, and the corn became golden dewdrops, and the carrots became the stems of bonebreaker plants. The broth had to be stirred counterclockwise for exactly thirteen minutes while reciting some gibberish chant Laurel must have made up on the spot, then stirred clockwise for another fourteen minutes in absolute silence.

Rarity faithfully followed every instruction, and for a little while she let herself feel just a little bit like a real witch again.

As for the effects of the potion, Laurel told her with a wry smile, if shared with another, boggart’s drought was said to promote lasting friendships.

“But that’s probably just a rumor,” Laurel said, pouring the finished stew into two bowls. “You can never tell with witches’ talk. It’s just as likely to be a ruse as anything. Witches enjoy tricking one another. This very well might turn our spleens inside out. Or it could straight hogwash.”

Rarity smiled and picked up her bowl. “I suppose there’s only one way to find out.”