The apples were going rotten.

She smelled it as soon as she stepped into the west orchards, the cloying sweet stench she associated with fermenting cider, and a hundred yards in, past the trees which had been harvested in time, she saw it.

Apples littered the ground, dozens of them, hundreds, even. Some were glossy, freshly fallen. Others had been chewed into brown pulp by fruit flies and rabbits and who knows what other varmints.

It was a sight that might make a mare cry.

Crying was off the agenda today. There was too much to do.

She’d brought with her the cart. It was stacked with empty buckets, and even with her earth pony strength and a life of hard labour, she struggled to pull it along. Normally her brother did that, but he was unwell, maybe more than unwell, so it was up to her.

She unloaded the buckets and placed them around the base of the nearest tree and moved on to the next tree and repeated the process until all the buckets were laid out and ready to receive. Then she returned to the first tree and hunched down in front of it. The muscles in her back and legs tightened like overwound springs. An instant later, she pushed off her front legs and kicked the tree with the full force of her body. The supple wood hummed in a familiar and comforting tune and the boughs dropped their burdens with a sigh. Guided by earth pony magic, the apples fell neatly into the buckets.

A quick glance told her that not all the fruit she had gathered would be worth keeping. Some of them were wizened and wrinkly, unappetizing to the fickle ponies at market who had come to expect only the best from Sweet Apple Acres.

Well, sometimes things don’t work out how you’d want them to, she thought bitterly. Sometimes, life’s just rotten.



As sundown neared, she decided to call it a day. The cart harness had rubbed through the fur on her shoulders, leaving the skin underneath red and raw. Her muscles ached. Sweat clothed her like a second skin. She had worked harder than she ever had, and still – still, damn it – there was another half of the orchard to be harvested.

It surprised her how much of a difference not having her brother made. Then, maybe it shouldn’t have. He taller, heavier, and stronger than any other stallion in town. He never balked at hard work, just accepted it in his quiet manner and got on with it. She may have become the mother-sister-manager of their family and farm when their parents passed, but her brother was the roots which held it up.

And if the roots die, the tree falls.

He ain’t going to die, she told herself. Quit thinking those thoughts. Papa taught you better than that. Besides, Twi said she would get help from Canterlot. Someone who knows what they’re doing. Just got to trust in her and he’ll be fine.

She crested the last rise on the path back to the homestead just as the sun called it quits. As had become a custom, she paused to catch her breath and watched the second story.

When it was first settled, the lands of Sweet Apple Acres were frontier territory. Resources were low, and beasts from the Everfree forest prowled in the night. With their limited supplies, her ancestors could not build both a house and a barn, so they compromised, creating the homestead.

Since then, it had gone under many repairs and renovations. The barn was converted into a kitchen. A ceiling was put in, and the space above divided into bedrooms. A bright coat of red paint replaced the roughhewn exterior.

In its present state, the homestead was a sprawling, mismatched, homely place, much like the family who had built it. Looking on, as the sun’s last light shone copper on the second story, it was easy for her to forget her aches and pains and feel content.

There was movement in one of the windows.

No, not just any window. The window to the sunset room, the room of her brother.

She saw it again. A small flicker, like a head turning. She squinted, hoping to pick out his silhouette, hoping to see that he was alright. For several minutes she stood there without seeing anything, then the light on the window faded, returning the interior to darkness.

There had been a movement, hadn’t there? She hadn’t just imagined it. If only she could check, but Twi had said, without realising the torture it would inflict, that no one was to open the door to the room.

No one open it? Darn it, that’s stupid thinking. What’s the worst that could happen?

But Twi had said, and she trusted Twi with her life. With her brother’s life.

She sighed and shouldered the weight of the harness and started down the slope to the homestead where there were apples to be sorted, good from bad, and dinner to be had and the Talk. Again, the Talk.


Dinners in her family were, to put it lightly, boisterous. Her granny, with the help of whoever was on roster, heaped the table high with plates of casserole, bowls of broth, and any number of pastries. All of these were in constant motion, passing from brother to sister, sister to granny, and back to brother again. An orchestra of clinks, clonks, slurps, chews, and talk. The first time she invited Twi over, the gal went away with an anchor for a stomach and a mild case of post-traumatic stress. That was their family’s way of dining.

Tonight, they ate in silence.

They each knew that if they spoke, there would be only one thing they spoke about, and they knew that nothing good could come of it. They also knew it was only a matter of time before one of them piped up.

Tonight, it was her sister who spoke.

‘These are good carrots, Granny. I didn’t know we had any.’

‘That neighbour of ours left ‘em. What’s ‘er name? The one with the gorgeous locks?’

‘Golden Harvest?’ her sister volunteered.

Her granny clapped her hoof against the table. ‘That’s the one! Left us a whole basket, freshly picked. You can tell cos they still got the tingle of the earth to them. Good crop, too.’

‘You shouldn’t have accepted them, Granny,’ she said. ‘Golden Harvest’s still recovering from the blight earlier this season. She ain’t got crops to give away.’

Her sister frowned. ‘How could you say no to a gift, Applejack? That’d be rude.’

She rubbed her temple, feeling a headache building. Darn it, it was so earlier in the night and already she could feel the conversation changing direction, like a ship pulled along by hidden currents.

‘You just got to say it the right way. Say you appreciate the sentiment, but can’t accept it. It’s the right thing to do.’

Her sister paused to consider this. In her place, her granny spoke. ‘You sure about that?’

She frowned. ‘What are you trying to say?’

A dark look came over her granny’s face. For an instant, she felt like a foal again, trembling before the scolding like a tree in a storm. She reacted instinctively, bracing herself. She had no reason to feel guilty. None.

‘If someone shows you kindness, especially someone who ain’t got much reason to be kind at the moment, then the gracious thing to do is accept,’ her granny said in an iron tone. ‘If you think she needs that kindness more than you, repay it in kind. Refusing, no matter how you word it, ain’t right.’

Her granny took a bite from one of the carrots and chewed slowly, her gaze never wandering. She swallowed, then added, ‘Those carrots just hurt your pride.’

Her face flushed. Hot, angry words rose to her tongue, but she caught them before they escaped. After a few deep breaths, she said, ‘This has got nothing to do with pride.’

‘You ain’t the only one who’s worried about him, Applejack.’

And there, it had been said. The currents had won and now the ship would sail to their tune. The same conversation would replay itself as it had every night for the past week.

She reached for her anger as a defence for what was to come, but found in its place simple sadness. ‘I know, Granny. I know.’

Silence fell over the table once more as each of them nursed their thoughts.

‘D’you think he’s hungry?’ said her sister in a small voice.

She sighed. ‘I’d think so.’

‘Maybe we should bring him something to eat.’ She added hastily, ‘I know Twi said not to open that door and that, but I was thinking, how much does she actually know about diseases and the like? It could be alright.’

‘About diseases? Not much, I wouldn’t think, but our Twi knows more than anyone about magic, and she said that whatever he has is unlike anything—’

‘—she’s ever seen. Yeah, I get it. But he was with us for several days before Twi came, and we’re still alright, so I thought maybe . . .’

Every word her sister said gave voice to the niggling feeling in the back of her mind. What if Twi was wrong? What if her brother was okay? Sick, but alive and needing help.

Her vision began to swim as the doubts cascaded. She felt her chest tighten, her throat constrict, and the weight of the one question she didn’t dare voice press down on her.

‘Apple Bloom!’ she snapped. Her sister shrunk back, a look of hurt on her face. She took a moment to rein in her emotions, then squatted by her sister’s side.

‘Just because we didn’t get it before doesn’t mean much.’ She paused, searching for the right words. ‘You remember when we burned part of the east orchard because the rot got in? Before we could see its flowers, the mold had already burrowed deep into the tree. That’s why we had to burn some of the healthy-looking ones, too.

‘This disease could be like that. Big Mac was with us before it could flower and spread, but now . . .’ Her voice hitched, and the few words rushed out like air escaping from a punctured balloon. ‘But now we might get sick too, and that’s the last thing he would want.’

She turned away, brushing her cheek. Darn, dry eyes at a time like this? Getting teary was the last thing she needed.

A small hoof pressed against her hip. ‘I’m sorry, Applejack. I didn’t mean to---- I’m just worried.’
She swiped her cheek once more, then drew her sister into a tight hug. ‘I know, sugarcube. I know.’



After putting her sister to bed, she lingered in the doorway. All that she could see of her sister was a lump beneath the covers and a small mop of red hair on the pillow. She smiled a small smile, and closed the door behind her.

She made her way to the bathroom for a much deserved soak. As she passed the door to her brother’s room, she hesitated mid-stride, then stopped to consider it.

It was much the same as any other door in the house except for two details. One, somepony had long ago carved into the middle of the door the name ‘Sunset Room’; and two, the door knob was covered in the a veneer of dust.

‘‘T ain’t right,’ she whispered, wiping the dust off the door knob. There. Now it didn’t look as though the room, and its occupant had been abandoned.

As she turned to go, she heard a rattle and a faint moan. Her heart jumped from trot to gallop. Glancing down the hallway, half-expecting her sister to have heard these sounds and be watching, she crouched by the door.

‘Big Mac, is that you?’

No response came.

‘Can you hear me?’ she asked. ‘Are you okay?’

She pressed her ear to the wood and listened.

Once again, she could hear a faint scratching sound, but beyond that nothing.

How much does Twi know about diseases? she thought.

What if he’s too weak to speak, just lying there, hungry and thirsty and dying? she thought. What if Twi doesn’t get back in time?

She placed a hoof on the doorknob and stood still. Arguments flew back and forth in her head, each so sure of their cause, each whispering, taunting, guilting, begging, urging her to twist the knob and see what was inside or to step away and keep on trusting. Her hoof felt like it was dancing with electricity, fifty hertz of household current, alternations to match the beat of her heart. After a time long enough for a bath to be drawn, she stepped away, teeth grit until they squeaked.

At once, the energy rushed out of her, and she felt like a spent battery. Darn it, this wasn’t fair. Wasn’t fair at all.



She drew her bath and stepped in before it was full. Her skin prickled uncomfortably as the hot water seeped through her coat, but soon that passed, leaving behind a deep warmth that loosened the tight bunches of muscles in her legs and back and neck.

When the bath was full, she took off her Stetson and placed it on a hook set into the wall. Then she took off her hair ties, one for her mane and one for her tail, and placed them beside the hat. This was done slowly and methodically, like a ritual in an ancient monastery, and once completed, she gave herself to the water.

For a while the warmth and comfort kept her thoughts at bay. There was no world beyond the walls of the bathroom. No orchards going to rot, no dying brother; there were no responsibilities towards her family or her farm or her friends. For a while, it was just her.

But, as surely as the bath lost its heat, those thoughts returned.

Will Twi get back in time?

She wasn’t surprised to find that was the first question to spring to mind. She had wondered if there was a cure or if her brother could be saved, but she never considered the possibility that he would be dead before Twi even returned.

The possibility frightened her, but there was nothing to do about it.

Or was there?

She could open the door. She could bring her brother food and water, without which he would surely die sooner. And if she got sick? Well, then Twi would be saving the two of them when she returned.

If there’s a cure, she told herself. Don’t go getting ideas. Not this late in the piece.

And then there was her sister’s question: How much did Twi know about diseases?

She sighed and reached for her mane brush. There were a day’s worth of tangles which needed straightening before this bath finished. She started with her mane first, brushing and teasing, yanking and snapping, until every strand ran parallel to its neighbour from root to tip.

Could Twi have misdiagnosed? It didn’t seem likely. Whatever he had, it was bad enough for her brother to agree that the door should not be opened until proper care had arrived. But he had always been quick to agree with Twi, and not all of that was because he trusted her judgement.

How much could a peep hurt? I’d just be seeing how he’s doing, maybe leave a little water and fresh food.

She toyed with the brush, turning it this way and that. Eventually she threw it down, pulled the plug, and stepped out of the bath.

Just a peep.



As she passed the door on the way down to the kitchen, she heard the scratching again, louder this time. It made her think of something being dragged across wooden boarding. A large body, say.

She hurried on down and prepared a bowl of beans and roasted vegies. After a hesitation, she even added some carrots. She put this on a tray, added a pitcher of water, and was about to turn to go up stairs when she felt a small hoof on her hip.

She stifled a scream and span around. ‘Applebloom, what’re you doing?’ she snapped.

Her sister looked dead on her hoofs, but her eyes were sharp. ‘I was gonna ask you the same thing.’

‘I’m . . .’ she looked at the bowl of veg, then sighed. ‘I’m going to see how Big Mac is doing.’

The filly nodded. ‘Can I come with you?’

‘I don’t see why not, but you got to stay in the hallway. I’m just dropping these inside, not going in.’

‘Sure.’

She picked up the tray and, sister in tow, made her way back to the second door to the left. There were no scratching sounds now. Only a silence which turned every breath into the wheeze of a bellow and made every heartbeat seem as loud as a footstep.

She put a hoof on the doorknob, took a deep breath, then twisted and pushed. The door swung open.

Immediately, she was struck by a dank, musty smell, like the basement where they kept their crops for winter. It was too dark to see far into the room, but near the heel of the door, she could make out some kind of waxy substance.

‘Big Mac?’ she whispered. The words passed into through the room like a ghost, stirring nothing. No, not nothing. She could hear the scratching again, close to window, but slowly drawing closer.

‘Big Mac, we brought some food for ya. Water, too, if you’re thirsty.’

‘Are you okay?’ came her sister’s voice.

The scratching came closer, and as it came closer, she began to hear other sounds mixed into it. Gurgles. Clicks. Hiccups. Uneasiness tightened her throat, and she took a step back from the door.

‘Apple Bloom, I think maybe we should leave him be.’

Her sister shook her head. ‘Please, AJ. He’s real sick.’

She took a step into the room. 'Alright, Mac. We're leaving it here. You can have it if you--'

She stopped. In the light coming through the doorway, she could see a hoof. Or, at least, what used to be a hoof. It reached forwards and pulled itself a little closer, revealing lines of fungus sprouting from the frog and running up to the knee like sickly veins.

She swallowed, then shut the door.

'Sis?' her sister asked.

She didn't answer. Instead, she looked at the bottom of her hoof. Stuck to it was a thin layer of sticky substance. She felt her blood run cold.

Whatever it was, it should have stayed behind the closed door.