"In the name of Honored Sun and Moon," the stone-faced Royal Guard said, "nopony leaves."

"This is most irregular," Fancy Pants protested.

Silence.

Fancy sighed. As much as it galled him, he couldn't let it go at that; the whispers were already turning ugly, and this party was his responsibility. He cast a glance around the dozens of ponies mingling in the ballroom—this was going to identify him to far too many of the guests, but that couldn't be helped now—then pulled back his white cowl with a flare of his horn and reached his hoof up to dislodge the pearlescent mask over his muzzle.

The dull tingle of enchantment discharge rippled through his skin. His coat didn't change—more accurately, the white of the enchantment dropped away to reveal his own white—but his mane faded from the disguise's multi-hued pastel into his natural blue, and his mark began to appear on the empty canvas of his flanks.

"A word please, lads," he said quietly, forcing cheer into his voice. "I realize you're not going to recognize anypony in this room—that's somewhat the point—but not only did I draw the lot to serve as the host of this party, I also happen to be the Right Honourable Fancy Pants, representing Ponysylvania in the House of Lords." He swept his hoof around the room, at the dozens of silver-masked, silver-maned grey ponies in identical crisp grey cloaks who were chatting, dancing, and sipping sweet and salted drinks through straws. "I examined the guest list quite closely, and while attendance never quite matches the RSVPs, I would estimate that there's a full score of members of Parliament in this mansion. Now, I have no desire to stand in the way of royal business, but if you're going to detain a quarter of the ponies who vote on your budget, it's good form to offer an explanation."

The guard shifted from parade rest into rigid attention. "Sir. With all due respect, sir, nopony is to leave the premises until further notice, and we are authorized to detain the princesses themself if they try. I cannot provide further details."

"Are we under arrest?"

"Not unless you try to leave, sir."

"Are we in danger?"

"If so, sir, the Royal Guard is on the premises and stands ready to protect you."

Fancy Pants frowned. "I'll say again. This is most irregular."

"If I may, sir, it is not our intention to disrupt your event," the second guard, wearing sergeant's bars, said. "I will direct the senior officer to speak with you when she arrives. Until then, all we ask is that everypony remains indoors, and nopony leaves."

"This is outrageous," the stallion next to Fancy muttered. Not even the voice modulation of the mask's enchantment and the neutral smile of its full-muzzle face could conceal his distaste. "I promised my wife I would be home from the masquerade at nine."

"My apologies, good sir," Fancy Pants said, slipping his own mask back on and feeling the enchantments begin to once again take hold. His voice rose as he spoke, to a bland approximation of Celestia's. "No accounting for royal business sometimes."

"No," the stallion pressed, "I mean it; this is outrageous, and furthermore unconscionable, a blatant violation of our sovereign rights. I must discuss with you what is to be done about it."

Fancy Pants shook his head and sighed, feeling a headache creep in. "I suspect you'll be far from the last to request that conversation, but it's premature. We'll let them sort out their issue and I'll file a complaint in the morning." He turned and walked back through the ballroom, trying to figure out where to begin breaking the bad news.

The stallion trotted up alongside. "I insist," he murmured. "Give me a moment alone. You'll find I have a…unique…perspective."

Under the mask, Fancy raised one eyebrow. "Alright," he said, and gestured toward the kitchen. An odd request, to be certain, given an edge of danger by the circumstances—but that was the sort of thing which added spice to these masquerades, and that's what they were there for, wasn't it?

They squeezed their way past the chefs to the pantry, and Fancy closed the door and leaned against it. "This should be private enough, with all the yelling and frying they do in there. What's going on?"

The stallion drew in a long breath, and fumbled with his mask. "I need to show you something, Fancy. Please…when I do, give me a moment to explain."

"Alright," Fancy Pants said, and as his counterpart's grey coat and silver mane faded away, he found himself staring into the black muzzle of a changeling.

Fancy froze, eyes darting around the pantry, trying not to look like he was looking for weapons. For a month after the invasion at the Royal Wedding, he'd carried a shock wand in an inner coat pocket, but he'd been relaxing just enough to fall back out of the habit. "You. They're here for you."

"They're not," the changeling said quickly. "Look. I don't mean you any harm, and we don't have much time. Please let me talk." He sat and widened the stance of his front limbs in a submissive gesture.

Fancy swallowed in between shallow breaths, and nodded. "Alright."

"First of all, I'm a close friend of yours—and I don't mean I'm imitating them, I mean I am them and I have been as long as you've known me. My home, my friends, my family, my career—those are things I built, not stole. I was sent to scout Equestria decades ago, but after I arrived I realized I liked this life better than the one that sent me here. I dropped contact with the hive long ago, and I'm a loyal Equestrian. The invasion was as much a shock to me as it was to you."

"You have to admit," Fancy Pants said, "that's a lot for me to simply accept."

"Hear me out." The changeling looked at him, eyes widening. "You were right, they are here for a changeling—but not me. I've been upstairs in the library all night, but I came down to the ballroom for some salted punch. As I was filling my glass, I realized there was another changeling in the room. That was shortly before the guards surrounded the place. They're pursuing one of the invasion's spies, I bet, and I want those bastards that ruined our home dealt with as much as you do. But if the Guard drags in a battlecaster and casts a changeling detection spell on the entire mansion…"

"…they find you too," Fancy Pants finished, and the changeling nodded. "So what do you expect me to do about that?"

"Your word carries weight. Tell them that because of the nature of the party, the investigation needs to be as discreet as possible. And then tell them you noticed somepony suspicious arrive, and that they should check out that pony individually before disrupting the festivities. They can cast a detection spell on you to verify your identity, and then they can catch the spy without destroying a friendship and a family."

"And how would I know who the other changeling is?"

"When we left the room, she was in the group of mares talking at the edge of the dance floor. Go introduce yourself to them while I get another glass of punch, and stand so that they're between yourself and the punch bowl. I'll fill my glass when you start speaking with her, take one sip, then set it down and walk away."

Fancy Pants digested this in silence.

"Please, Fancy. You care about your friends. I've known you long enough to know that. Do the right thing."

"I do care about my friends—you're right. So tell me which one of them you are."

The changeling's eyes blinked several times. "Please," he said softly, "don't ask me that."

"You're asking a great deal of me. It's a fair question."

"It would change our relationship forever. You'd never be able to look at me without knowing, and I'd never be able to look at you without picking up that doubt and confusion…and, and revulsion…you're feeling right now." He dropped his gaze to the floor. "Please. Just turn in the spy and pretend this never happened. We'll all be happier."

"Nothing personal, but under the circumstances, I need something more than that to take your word."

The changeling looked up with sunken posture and pleading eyes. "Fancy…don't. Look—it would make you an accessory. If…if you really must, I promise to meet you and tell you everything after the guards leave, but for now, if you don't know who I am, then they can't arrest you for helping me."

Fancy frowned underneath his mask. That didn't sit right with him, but he didn't think he was going to get much more out of the changeling.

"Alright. Make that promise and I'll work with you—but I need to do something first, while we're here," he said, lighting his horn.

"Fancy?" the stallion said, tensing.

He closed his hornglow around a small pouch of bakers' flour, and nudged it to the front edge of the top shelf. It tumbled down and bounced off the changeling's back with a soft paf. The changeling yelped, cowering back and flinging up his forehooves to protect his face.

"Oh!" Fancy Pants said. "I'm sorry! Calm down, friend. I was just trying to grab this." He re-lit his horn and floated down a chef's knife from the top shelf, carefully tucking its sheath under his cloak. "If there's a spy in the mansion, I don't want to go out there unarmed. I would suggest you do the same, except that if they do find you, it would look awfully bad for you."

The changeling closed his eyes, trembling, and took a few deep breaths. "I-it's alright. Understandable."

"Alright," Fancy said, stepping away from the door and gesturing outward. "Point her out to me. I'll take care of the rest."

The changeling nodded and put his mask back on. "Thank you, old friend. Thank you more than words can express." Within moments, he was again an unrecognizable blank-flanked grey, indistinguishable from the other guests except for the subtle smudge of flour across the back of his cloak.

They walked out through the kitchen back into the ballroom. Fancy nodded to the flour-smudged guest, then casually trotted away, making light conversation with a procession of grey faces as he worked his way toward the open floor by the orchestra. When "Smudge" reached the refreshments table, Fancy snatched a hornful of paired flowers off of one of the catering trays lining the room and trotted up to the cluster of identical-looking gossiping mares.

"I say," he said, threading the short-clipped stem of a tulip through the buttonhole of one of the mare's cloaks, "this deplorable business with the Guards has put me in the mood for some distraction."

She giggled and plucked the accompanying tulip from his horngrip, setting it on a tray to the side. "Rather absurdly daring of you to play the flower game after unmasking, isn't it, my dear Fancy Pants?"

He glanced past her to Smudge; nothing. "Indeed," he said, taking a yellow rose and moving on to the next mare. "I'm quite the cheeky fellow. Are you a cheeky mare?"

"See, I told you he has a type," the second mare said to a round of giggles. She, too, set aside the matching flower.

"If he wants to admire the cheekiest mare in the kingdom," a third said as he offered a chrysanthemum to similar rejection, "he should strap on some wings, grab a slice of cake, and turn his back to a mirror." That provoked further levity.

"Really, Fancy," a fourth purred, taking three predatory steps forward with hips swaying, "I find it hard to believe your lines are so inept tonight. I'd heard you were a far more—" she slowly licked her lips and levitated an iris into his buttonhole—"cunning linguist."

He lifted the matching iris toward her, watching Smudge out of the corner of his eye; nothing. With a tinge of regret, he set it aside. "Is that what you'd heard, madam? You damn me with faint praise."

"Silly of you not to notice, dear—" a fifth said as the fourth gave a little "hmph" and retreated—"our host's clever little switch-a-roo in the kitchen."

"I'm full of surprises tonight, aren't I?" Fancy retorted, tucking a daffodil into her buttonhole.

She plucked the second daffodil from his grip and stared at it for a moment. "One of which is that you are quite off your game, dear boy. I shall have to let Fancy know how disappointed we were with the lad in his horseshoes."

Smudge lifted a glass to his mask and took a long, deliberate sip through his straw.

Fancy hurriedly set down the rest of his flowers and threw a sultry edge into his voice. "Now that, milady, sounds like a refreshing challenge to my linguistic skills. May I suggest a diplomatic meeting of lips?"

The daffodil halted midway to the tray, then rose up to his lapel, displacing the quickly-discarded iris. "If only so that I can adequately measure the scope of my disappointment."

Smudge stared openly, his glass trembling in his horngrip, as Fancy Pants lifted a fore and escorted Daffodil toward the nearby hallway. Fancy turned his head and gave Smudge a slow nod. 'I'll take care of the rest.' I just hope he doesn't get spooked and do anything regrettable. I need to know more.

Fancy walked a few doors down and ushered her into a small parlor lit by candles. He gestured to the chaise longue, and while she sat, he locked the door, leaving his horn glowing a moment longer to discreetly readjust the knife on his back.

"You're not here for a rut," she said quietly. "What's going on, Fancy Pants?"

"If you know enough to ask that," he replied, "you know enough to tell me."

"I might. What did he say to you?"

Fancy turned to face her full on, his back to the door. "Please understand this. I have a very simple answer to this problem: stay quiet and let the guards do what they came here to do. No games. If you want my assistance, I suggest you tell the truth and earn it."

Daffodil was silent for several uncomfortable seconds. Finally, she reached up for her mask and wiggled it off of her muzzle. "Yes," she said, "I am a changeling." But as the enchantment of the mask faded away, it wasn't to black chitin but to a wrinkled chestnut pelt and bright red mane.

Fancy Pants frowned. "Strange way you have of revealing you're a changeling. That's the face of Madame de Bears."

"You already know what chitin looks like, dear, so I'm trying to give you the truth you asked for. I am her, in every way that matters and many that don't, and I have been since my marriage forty years ago to Teddy, stars grant him rest. I assume that the other changeling accused me of being…"

Fancy Pants nodded, trying to keep his muzzle neutral even though she couldn't see it through the mask. "The spy they're here for, yes." And now I believe him. But if I convince her I'm on her side, I can walk her over to the guards and end this quickly and quietly.

De Bears stared up at him blankly, then let out a large sigh, her face relaxing. "He said I was the spy? Oh, thank goodness."

Fancy raised an eyebrow and stayed silent.

"Fancy, dear. You have absolutely no idea how tragic this might have been. But fortune blessed us tonight. I have proof I'm innocent—proof it will hurt you to hear, but which I must share to impress upon you the necessity of sending the guards away as urgently as possible."

"Proof." He tried belatedly to inflect it into a question.

"Fancy…I know something which the spy doesn't know. Couldn't know." She leaned forward earnestly. "There aren't two changelings here tonight. There are three…and the third is your wife."

It was a lie. He knew it was a lie. She was cornered, and she was flailing for an out. But still, his blood froze in his veins. "What!?" he squeaked.

"Everypony in high society knew Fleur would be here with you tonight, and any changeling who'd ever seen her would know of her nature. It's not her the spy didn't expect—it's me. When the spy noticed the presence of another changeling in the ballroom, he assumed I was her, and tried to save his own carapace by lying through his fangs to you. It's that mistaken identity which will save us."

"No," Fancy said, staggering sideways to a chair and sitting down heavily. "I don't believe you." Some part of him screamed at him to keep up the act—accept it, move on, and gain her trust—but it was too much. A friend of his he might have been able to accept, but his wife…

"I'm sorry, Fancy," she said, voice subdued. "I truly am. She should have been the one to tell you; and I'm certain she would have, in her own time. But if you love her—and I can feel you do; and you should—then you must know, in order to save her."

"I'm sorry, but that just can't be true. She was in Canterlot when the invasion was repelled," Fancy Pants lied, "and wasn't hurt or ejected by the blastwave." He looked closely at de Bears' expression, hoping for a crack in the facade.

Instead, only confusion. "I…I don't know what to say. That's not true. I should know."

Damn it. He shook his head numbly and struggled for focus. "You mentioned proof. What's the proof?"

"As I said, there are three changelings here tonight," she said. "But there weren't supposed to be. I cancelled my RSVP last night because I was feeling ill…but after a nap and some quite delicious mane-brushing from my dear servant High Style, I perked up and decided to come anyhow, and got in by showing my invitation at the door. I chatted with Fleur earlier, after we recognized each other's nature through the masks."

Fancy Pants' heart dropped into his ribs and contracted into a cold, hard lump, as his strongest evidence against "de Bears" evaporated like morning dew. She'd provided the name of a pony not on the guest list…but he'd stayed silent about it, and she'd explained the discrepancy without prompting.

"The spy—who only just arrived, mind you—only knows about himself and the changeling he saw in the ballroom. I know about Fleur, myself, and the spy. Fleur knows about herself and me, and she's smart enough to have figured out that the Guard arrived too late to be here for either of us. Simply ask Fleur, without prelude or explanation, how many changelings are at the party, and when she says three you'll have your proof." De Bears pointed at the door. "But we must move quickly! If you cannot expose the spy to the guards before they bring a battlecaster in, the price you pay will be too dear."

"But…" Fancy said, brain rebelling. It made too much sense. "But…no. I don't believe you. I can't."

"Then turn me over to them so they have the changeling they came here for," de Bears said, her voice growing tight. "But stars above, child, don't stand here dithering, or all is lost."

"You'd do that?"

"Fancy. You'd be making a terrible mistake, and you'd be setting a hostile changeling free to do further damage…but I would have to, for her. My husband is dead; my children are grown. She is young and in love. If you cannot believe me, then at least give her a chance."

He stood on shaking legs, feeling the world spin around him.

"Take…" he whispered. "Take me to my wife."

The walk was a surreal jumble of color and sound. The glints of light off of suits of armor standing in rigid display blurred together with the abstract brushstrokes of the modern art masterpieces on the walls. The sussurus of laughter and conversation provided the grey mortar between the bricks of sensation. De Bears' form, once again anonymous, was a dull and faded ghost flitting through the unreal half-life of their journey, peeking through doorways, up staircases, and around corners. It felt like they'd been walking for hours when she stopped to look at him, even though they'd barely traveled the length of the hallway to the far side of the mansion.

De Bears pulled him inside the conservatory—with its immense picture windows and broad balcony overlooking the steep slope of the mountain out to the distant lands beyond—and over to a tray of water glasses by the door. "She's in here," she murmured.

Fancy Pants nodded, throat dry, and grabbed a glass of water and a straw. "I…I've got to talk to her alone."

"Of course. But be mindful that the Guard mage might arrive at any minute."

"Who is she?"

"With the blue rose in her buttonhole," de Bears said, "sitting by herself over at the curtains."

Fancy Pants glanced over. The mare that de Bears had described was staring directly at them, though she looked away upon meeting Fancy's eyes.

"Go to the ballroom," Fancy said. "If I don't make it there in time, and it looks like they're bringing in a battlecaster…catch their attention and look suspicious. Try to flee once they see you."

"Hurry," de Bears pleaded, and slipped away.

Fancy walked over to the curtains. She stared at him as he approached.

He slipped into the seat next to her and took another sip of water. "Strange night."

The grey mare wearing the blue rose glanced over her shoulder, peeking around the edge of the curtains through the picture window. "It is indeed. There's Guard pegasi hovering outside," she said, subdued.

"All around the building."

"Are they?…Well, that would stand to reason, if they're here." She laughed nervously. "I wouldn't know. I've been here in the conservatory all evening."

"Pity. The seats in the ballroom are more comfortable." He inwardly chastised himself, and braced for a lunge into weightier matters; small talk was accomplishing nothing but wasting time.

"Perhaps I'll move out there, then. Ah…unless they're shutting down the masquerade?"

"About that," Fancy Pants said. "We need to talk."

Blue Rose looked straight into his eyes, and he wished that the masks gave him more of an expression to read.

"You're a changeling," he said, as definitively as he could while dropping his voice too low for anypony else to hear.

She hesitated only for a moment before leaning in and whispering. "Yes."

"You're my wife," he blurted out, and immediately she froze, and he knew it was the wrong thing to have said.

"No," Blue Rose whispered desperately, placing a hoof on his fetlock. "No. No. Don't ask that question. Dear sweet stars, don't ask that."

"The Royal Guard is outside," he said, trembling, "and your life is on the line, damn it, Fleur, and I need the dust-blasted truth."

"No. Don't." He saw a tear well up in her eye. "Don't. Fancy Pants, don't. Who told you that? They're…they're lying. I don't want to die, Fancy, but I can't claim to be her just to save myself. We've known each other a long time, and you're my friend, but I'm not who you think I am."

"No more lies," he hissed, putting a hoof over hers and pressing down. "You're my wife, or you're rotting in a jail cell."

"Fancy!" she hissed back, eyes wide, tears at their edges. "Oh sweet stars don't, listen to yourself, please, you're, you're going to do something stupid and it's going to hurt everypony—"

Damn, damn, damn. The worst of it was, he was. He eased up the pressure on her hoof. He needed to corroborate de Bears' story. Find the spy. Sort out the rest later.

Blue Rose sobbed softly. Fancy Pants glanced around. The other grey faces in the room were watching without looking. He lit his horn and enveloped them in a small globe of silence, hoping that that plus the masks would provide enough privacy to say what needed to be said.

"Please, Fancy," she sobbed. "Look, what you're asking…you're upset, right now, I can feel it, I can feel how you hate us…and you've got the right to, after what the hive did. But don't ask me who I am. Don't ask me anything only I would know. It would end things between us, and don't tell me it wouldn't, because I can feel the roar of your heart. Stars, Fancy, I can feel it, you know what I mean by that, and I want to throw up."

"Fleur," he said, stomach wrenching.

"Please. Just pretend, Fancy. Pretend you didn't hear any names. I'm actually an old Academy friend of yours. You've known me for two decades. I never stole anything, and I never hurt anypony."

That, on the other hoof, sounded way too familiar. "Oh. I see. Is that the lie the hive tells you to tell?" he snarled.

"I never asked you to believe it. I asked you to pretend that's what you heard. Oh, stars, Fancy. Please, please stop. I'm going to vomit. I'm in a mask and I'm going to vomit."

He gritted his teeth, feeling tears gather.

"Turn me in if you have to, Fancy, just don't hate me. Oh, stars, please." She curled up into a ball, openly trembling.

"Fleur…" he said, then shook his head. "No. Changeling. I don't know who you are. You're just a changeling." He ground his teeth together, bottling up his emotions. This mare was a stranger. Fleur being a changeling was a lie.

It wasn't, unfortunately, but the truth was hurting her.

"Tell me," he said, clinging to the one thing that could save them, "how many changelings are in this mansion."

She took a long, deep, breath, uncurling shaking limbs, resting a hoof on him for support before yanking it back as if his coat was on fire.

Blue Rose steadied herself again. "Three," she said.

"Who?"

"Me," she said. "The spy who the Royal Guard are here to catch. And Madame de Bears."

His heart wrenched and flipped. That was it, then. The worse things felt better, and the better things felt worse, and now he wanted to vomit too.

"I'm sorry," The Changeling Who Was Not Fleur whispered. "I'm so sorry, Fancy. I never meant to put you through this."

Fancy Pants stood abruptly. "We'll talk later," he said, resting a hoof on her withers—as much to console himself as her. "I have a spy to turn in."

She nodded. "Of course."

He turned and began trotting toward the door.

"I hope we can talk some more once they've hauled him away," she called out to his back. "I'll be here. Right in this chair. I can't promise to tell you everything, but you do deserve some answers."

He was out in the hallway when it hit him like a thunderclap.

The moment of vertigo from the spell made him lose his balance, and he plowed headlong into a suit of armor. Metal and pony slammed into the floor. He staggered back up, afterimages bursting into his eyes. The other guests within eyesight were glancing around, disoriented. The ache of feedback filled his horn, and the magelights mounted on the walls were all giving off soft purple sparks.

"Shit," he said, then burst into a gallop, mind racing. "Shit!"

He tore his cloak and mask off as he rounded the corner to the ballroom. "Stop!" he shouted, eyes haring around the room until they went to ground in the evocation circle which had been hastily inscribed on the dance floor. He adjusted his course toward the midnight blue unicorn in its center. "Stop!"

The unicorn stood to her full height, turned to face him, and spread wings, raising one regal hoof and one regal eyebrow.

Fancy flung his head down on instinct, legs locking, skidding to a bow at her hooves. "Princess," he said, lungs afire from the sprint. "Stop."

"My Lord Fancy Pants," she said. "Please stand—and then explain the meaning of this display."

"Problem," he gasped, "with your. Detection spell."

"Oh," she said in a voice that both denied and demanded elaboration.

He stopped for a few short breaths, glancing around the room. There were circles of guards around both Smudge and de Bears, resting hooves on the hilts of their weapons. A cluster of them was filing toward the hallway he'd just come from.

"Your spell identified four changelings in the mansion?" he said, fighting to turn the ending inflection down into a statement.

The eyebrow went back up. "It did, though none were informed of that conclusion save the Night Guards instructed via mental link. How did you come to know this?"

"With all due respect, Your Highness," he said, wondering how to finish that sentence, and then inspiration hit: "I noticed the spell flash twice. You must believe me, Your Highness, before you make a grave error and destroy innocent lives. There are two changeling spies, and you detected them twice."

An uncertain murmur rippled through the crowd. Luna regarded him silently, then looked over at Smudge and de Bears.

"I'm afraid you've detained an innocent pony," Fancy Pants said. "A victim of the duplication."

"My Lord Fancy Pants," Luna said, "if you will forgive my idle observation: for a pony who did not set off the detection spell, you seem to have quite the uncommon knowledge of changeling spies."

The crowd stirred again.

"I am prepared to testify in court, under oath and truth spell," he said, drawing himself up and raising his voice, "that they panicked as the hoof of the law drew near; and that both spies, in a misguided effort to cast suspicion elsewhere, identified each other to me."

Chaos erupted.

"Silence!" Luna bellowed, but that would be a long time in coming.

---

It was a loud silence—reflecting around the empty ballroom as it was. The two changelings disguised as mares had been arrested, the masquerade had come to an unceremonious halt, and the guards and guests had scattered like ants from a prodded anthill. The servants had finished their first cleaning pass, leaving behind only Fancy Pants and a grey-cloaked figure with a smudge of flour on its back.

"Because I knew you'd be mad," Smudge finally said. "I…I didn't think you would accept it. Accept me. I'm sorry."

"I am mad," Fancy Pants admitted, then sighed. "But I love you."

"Not to be flip," Smudge said, "but I know. I know, Fan. Even if I hadn't seen you standing up to the Princess for me, I can feel it."

Fancy Pants looked down, biting his lip.

"And I love you too," Smudge said.

"I know," Fancy Pants said quietly. "Not the same way you do, but…I trust you. I love you. And that means I have to listen to my heart sometimes, even when I'm a damn scared fool."

"Is that how you knew I was…well, me?" Smudge said quietly.

"Oh, heavens, no," Fancy Pants said. "I was ready to take the spies at their word and turn you in to the Guard, right up until one of them blew their cover at the last possible moment."

"How do you mean?"

"The one wearing the blue rose referred to you as a 'he'. But she'd been in the conservatory all evening, which you hadn't visited, and the timeline they gave me made it impossible for de Bears to have told her about you."

Smudge was silent. "I don't understand. You're right, we never saw each other. How did she know I was here in a male form?"

"She didn't—she couldn't have, unless every one of you was lying in ways that made no sense. And de Bears was female, both in shape and in cover story. So Blue Rose had to have seen another changeling—a changeling not a single one of you expected."

Smudge thought. "But there weren't any other changelings that could have been there. There's no 'friend from the Academy,' Fan. That's the story we were trained to tell if our cover was compromised by someone we thought we could leverage for trust." Smudge lowered his head. "And I'm sorry I stooped to it. I was scared, Fan. Scared."

"I know." He raised a hoof. "But the best lies are indistinguishable from the truth. I assume the real Madame de Bears is, in fact, a changeling?"

"She is." Smudge cocked his head. "And she and I really are friends. We both attend these masquerades in stallion form—but she really was sick, horribly so. You're not saying she visited despite her illness, do you?"

"Ask her the next time you see her, but my bits are on yes. I think maybe that 'illness' wasn't. The spies were confident that the real her wouldn't be here, which suggests they did something to her—poisoned her, or whatever the changeling equivalent is. De Bears realized something was wrong, and dragged herself here to warn the other changeling she knew might be in danger. When she ran across a changeling in a mare's body in the conservatory, she realized it wasn't you, and got scared and hid. In the meantime, you went downstairs for drinks, and then the guards arrived and everything went crazy."

Smudge nodded silently.

"A bit for your thoughts, my dear?"

"Just that I don't deserve a pony so smart, and so willing to sacrifice so much for me."

Fancy Pants chuckled. "Nonsense. Either you're wrong, or I'm disagreeing with a correct opinion from the mare I love, in which case I'm exactly as stupid as you deserve."

Smudge smiled, then, and lit his horn. Two bent, worn lilies floated over from the waiter's tray filled with the detritus of the party.

"I hope the stallion I deserve will do me the honor of closing his eyes," Smudge said, and threaded a lily into Fancy's buttonhole.

"That would make it awfully difficult for me to get the other lily where it belongs," Fancy Pants said with a smile, and complied.

He heard the mask come off, then, and her lips were warm and sweet as spring.