Octavia rosined her bow in brisk strokes as she spoke, her foreleg moving back and forth as steadily as a metronome.

"It's not like I've never received tokens of affection before, of course," she said. "But this one seemed... different, somehow."

She set down the block of rosin on the polished dining table and then examined the bow with a critical eye. She smiled at what she saw.

"There's a special relationship between the player and the bow. Many musicians only use their own tail for the ribbon -- it's tradition."

She held the bow in her mouth for a moment as she reached out for the instrument leaning against the table and got it into position. She took the bow in the crook of one fetlock and gave an experimental pull across the strings. The lacquered wood resonated with a bass note.

"Of course, it's not the only tradition. No peacock feathers, lose-a-shoe not good-luck, you know how it is. I'm sure you have a few of your own."

She played a few more notes and adjusted a tuning peg now and then.

"Well, another one is to never refuse the gift of a lock of tail-hair. Folklore says it's inviting misfortune to do so. Always good to have some spare hair available, after all. And the timing was certainly fortunate!"

She took a slow, deep breath in and out, and then set about playing a short piece. The late afternoon sunlight streaming through the window behind her made a shadow-puppet of her movements, and the rich tones of her playing resonated in the cozy cottage. She smiled again as she looked up from her fugue of concentration.

"My secret admirer's sent me those charming poems, and then those scrumptious flowers, and now this. A lock of tail, the very day my bow frayed. I suppose I should be uneasy about something so forward, but somehow... I don't know. It just feels helpful. Caring."

She looked down at the pale cyan hair stretched taut down the bow.

"But listen to me, prattling on when there's a concerto with my name on it in less than an hour. I really must be off. Thanks for listening!"

She put away the tools of her trade as quickly as care would allow, and then slung the heavy case across her back and cantered out the door.



Vinyl Scratch waved at her housemate as she left. When the mare was out of sight, the Unicorn hopped off her chair and trotted over into her garishly decorated half of the building. She sat down on a throw rug and craned her neck to examine her own hindquarters. The loss was imperceptible in the spiky mess of her tail. She grinned.

[i]"Lose a shoe, Octy."[/i]