“… and so, your highness, I should like to extend my warmest gratitude for your consideration, and I hope that you will see fit to grant my company the right to do business at…”

Celestia clenched her jaw and, with centuries of practice, stifled a yawn. She allowed herself the briefest of glances at the clock (twelve to five), before turning her eyes back to the mare before her whose face, she noticed, was at the strangest of odds with her voice. If one simply looked at her (closing one’s ears, as it were), there was a fiery passion in her eyes, a grim determination in her powerful pose… but if one simply listened (closing one’s eyes, as it were. Although, come to think of it, that was something she could do, wasn’t it?), there was neither passion nor determination: only grim monotony, and phrasing that rambled beyond comprehension.

She wished she could close her ears. She felt she would probably pay better attention to this petition without the self-forsaken words. How did such an animated, youthful mare sound so interminably dull?

“… and, with the opportunity to remain open later, local shops might find themselves attracting a greater number of customers, which would be greatly beneficial to more than just…”

She was not going to look at the clock. She was a Princess. She had ruled the country single-hoofedly for over nine hundred and fifty years, now, and she was more than capable of not glancing at the clock for ten min

Nine to five.

… dammit. Why had she thought it would be a good idea to extend her daily court sessions by an hour?

“… which, if we consult figure 1” – oh, me, she has diagrams – “it should be obvious that the overall effect on the economic growth of Equestria would be—”

“Not yet.”

The mare blinked a few times, not quite stupidly. The other petitioners behind her raised their eyebrows in surprise, and a small, choked gasp echoed around the court. Even the guards, stood flanking her throne, could be seen to move a fraction in surprise.

“I beg your pardon, your highness?”

“I said, ‘Not yet,’ Velvet Dusk,” Celestia repeated, her boredom masked beneath a centuries-old façade of infinite majesty and calm. “Business hours have been changed before, and in my experience ponies require some time to get used to the concept before it is implemented. I’m afraid your café will have to stick to the same five o’clock closing time as everypony else, for at least a few years.”

She could see the disappointment on the mare’s face, yet could not hear it in her voice as she protested. The words flew over her head. Four to five. No, wait, she wasn’t supposed to be looking at the clock!

“I’m sorry, Miss Dusk. If you would like, I can make sure my economics advisors see your work? I assure you they shall be trying to implement new timings as soon as they can, but these things are not sudden, easy changes.” Celestia smiled reassuringly, and the mare smiled nervously back. “Your request is formally denied, but your ideas will certainly be taken on board.”

It was the third time that month she’d said those words, although to Velvet’s credit the other two petitioners hadn’t been nearly so well-prepared. Celestia always wondered how quite so many ponies could come and petition her for things she was already working on.

Three to five. It was close enough.

“Court is now closed for the night. Please return tomorrow if you wish to speak with me.” The remaining petitioners, grumbling, turned and walked from the hall, faces downtrodden and bitter murmurs exchanged. Velvet Dusk remained in the middle of the court floor, still looking up at her, a dumbstruck look plastered on her face.

Celestia took a deep breath and rose, smiling regally at the mare and her guards. She stepped down from the throne, walking calmly to the door, and nodding at the guards in a signal for them to help Velvet leave. Turning right as she left the room, Celestia followed her daily routine precisely and pushed all thoughts and memories for the day’s court from her mind.

A rumbling stomach—her own, as it happened—reminded her of the most important item on her agenda: Pony Joe’s. A newer café, famous for its doughnuts (or, as the ponies were calling them this decade, “donuts”. The blasted things had only been invented half a century ago; how could they already need renaming?), Celestia often visited for its coffee and delightfully relaxed atmosphere, but she supposed the odd doughnut or cake wouldn’t go amiss.

Trotting briskly down the hallway, Celestia twisted her head from side to side with a smile and a bright tune between her lips. No guards. Good. Pausing her hum momentarily, the hallway flashed with light, and the solar monarch vanished.



Closed.

That’s what the sign said: closed. It was even accompanied by a few dots and a gently curved line arranged, Celestia thought, in quite a splendid minimalistic impression of a sad face. Tentatively, she reached out a hoof and tapped the sign lightly; the white card swung on its little triangle of string, but the words stayed exactly as they had been before.

Celestia squinted at the sign, her eyes narrowing in mistrust, for never in her life (or, perhaps more usefully, in the time it had been in business) had Pony Joe’s been closed when she arrived. The sign looked sadly back at her, its eyes pinpoints of red ink, as its sways came slowly to a halt just off-centre.

She wasn’t quite sure what else she had expected it to do.

She also, as it turned out, wasn’t entirely sure what she had expected herself to do in this situation. She was, after all, Princess Celestia of Equestria—where she went, doors opened; when she wanted dessert, waiters kept restaurants running well after their shifts had ended to provide it.

Right now, Celestia wanted dessert. So why wasn’t Pony Joe’s open?

Letting out a huff of indignation, Celestia looked up at the palace and closed her eyes. Hopefully the kitchen staff would have some cake—or, at the very least, enough ingredients to make some.

---

She could see the unicorn standing in the line, if she tilted her head just right. It was tricky, because if she tilted her head too much the stallion talking at her would likely notice her lack of concentration, but she could barely see a hint of the lilac mane if she kept her head where it was. Perhaps, if she waited, the stallion might say something that was cause for concentration, where a head-tilt might signify interest. Patience, Tia. Patience.

Quarter past four.

What part of “patience” required looking at the clock? She wanted to look back at it, to confirm that what she knew was true: that the hands hadn’t moved, and that not even a minute had passed, but Celestia stayed firm. She kept her eyes focused on the stallion before her, her warm smile not quite plastered onto her muzzle but she did know that in an hour’s time she would be slouched over Pony Joe’s bar, rubbing her cheeks to ease the pain and stiffness away.

There. There she was. Standing just there, between the gray stallion and the… other gray stallion. Hmm. The nobility, it seemed, had more than its fair supply of white or grey stallions, and given the enchantments on her guards Celestia was beginning to wonder if this was why Canterlot was looking less like a thriving city and more like the finals of the Least Colourful Coat Contest.

She glanced briefly down at her own leg to confirm that, yes, she would certainly win, before looking back up at the stallion before her just as he finished his sentence. He was staring up at her, now, his mouth unmoving and his eyes wide and hopeful.

Celestia wasn’t quite sure what he had been asking for. It was something to do with one of those arts grants, wasn’t it? And he had wanted to build…

“Yes, your highness,” he answered. She wasn’t entirely certain she had voiced the question. “A library in Ponyville.”

Oh yes, that was it. The little town beneath Canterlot Mountain, with the quaint little train station and the most delicious jam. Tasted positively divine on scones, although it hadn’t managed to settle the argument on pronunciation. He’d wanted to build a Library there, to spread knowledge to the townsponies. She remembered something about the project “taking a few decades to grow”, or expand, or whatever unimportant terms businessponies used these days to describe putting time into making an enterprise work.

“I think that is an excellent idea,” Celestia declared, “and one I think well worth pursuing. I shall put it forward with my recommendation to the council.” There was always a council for these things, a group of ponies who sat around and decided who got the bits they needed to follow their dreams. She was glad her voice had quite so much weight with them, or who knew what kinds of projects they’d end up funding?

Concentrate. There were, after all, still… forty-three minutes to go.

Why was she here?

She couldn’t want to petition again, could she? She must have known the answer would never change so quickly. Most ponies didn’t come back for a second petition for at least a week, and the sane ones kept a respectable month between their enquiries. It was a matter of courtesy, of politeness.

Yet standing there in the crowd was Velvet Dusk, eager of face and dull of voice as always, ready to petition not a day after her last unsuccessful attempt. Celestia tried to hide her frown as the next petitioner was called forward, and (eighteen past four) wished the clock (eighteen past four) would move quicker (eighteen past four).



It took almost exactly thirty-two minutes for Velvet Dusk to make it to the front of the queue, and Celestia sighed quietly to herself as the mare took her place on the floor and the minute hand ticked, once, onto the ten.

“Good afternoon, Velvet Dusk.” Often the best way to unnerve determined petitioners, Celestia found, was to greet them by name with a friendly smile. The break in established form—for she normally just nodded as a sign for them to proceed—would throw them and leave them unprepared.

“And to you, Princess,” Velvet replied, bowing ever so slightly. “I thought a great deal last night about your words, and I spent some time reconsidering my proposal. In light of your decision to delay the introduction of the legislature required…”

And there she went again, dull tone and animated face. It was quite impressive to watch, really, if one ignored the unending torrent of words.

Celestia wasn’t sure why she was letting this happen. By all rights she should be cutting Velvet off before she could get going, making sure she was still aware that her answer would not change, and sending her off so one more petitioner could have a chance today. But for some reason, the monotonous mare held her attention, and Celestia couldn’t quite bring herself to interrupt.

“… and of course rolling this out over the course of a month would give employers a chance to speak with their employees, and work out new rotas and shifts for the new hours, while the general populace spends the time getting to grips with the…”

It wouldn’t take all that long and, besides, it was nearly time to call court to a close for the day. Velvet, for all her unnecessary phrasing, was not likely to drag on a repeat petition for more than ten minut

Two to five.

What?

Yes, definitely two to five. She hadn’t misread that. Velvet had been talking for eight minutes, and Princess Celestia had just let it happen.

“I’m very sorry, Ms. Dusk,” Celestia interjected quietly, as Velvet took a pause for breath, “but court is coming to a close for today. If you should like to finish your presentation you, and the remaining petitioners, are welcome to return tomorrow.”

Velvet’s exit was somewhat more dignified this time than being escorted out by guards; she nodded once, bowed, and quietly took her leave. The other petitioners followed her, and Celestia breathed a sigh of relief, rising from her throne and smiling at the guards who stood at its sides.

“At ease, gentlecolts,” she said, brightly. “I’m going out for some coffee and doughnuts. It’s been a long day. Would you care to join me?”

The stallions glanced at each other, worried expressions dancing across their faces, unspoken words passing between them in silent conversation. It was times like this when Celestia wished she had learned the mind-reading spells before destroying the scrolls, all those years ago. It might have been dangerous for other ponies to learn them, but she knew that she would never abuse that power.

“I-I’m afraid we’ve made plans for our time off this evening, your highness,” the one to her left (what was his name? She was pretty sure it began with an S…) stuttered. Celestia let out a breath, smiled, and nodded.

“I understand,” she said, before drawing in a deep breath and lighting up her horn. “Well, gentlecolts, I shan’t keep you waiting any longer.”



Closed.

If she were not a Princess, Celestia would likely have sworn at the sight of the little red-and-white sign hanging on the door. As it was, she turned her anger and disappointment into a composed nod and a regal, slow shake of her head. Her frustration was etched in the graceful smile on her muzzle.

This, she decided, was not happening.

Yes, that was it. The sign was nothing more than a figment of her imagination, and if she reached now for the doorknob, using her magic to twist it just so, she would find that the door would easily pull towards her and

The door was most definitely locked—which, of course, meant that the sign was not lying to her. Perhaps it was the little, beady eyes, or the insincerity in its frown, but Celestia had been convinced that the sign was dishonest. Yet somehow, the flimsy piece of card had more integrity than she had thought possible, and its impossible prediction was undeniably truthful.

Princess Celestia tried the only thing she could think of, and knocked.

She wasn’t entirely sure on knocking etiquette, as being the sole, supreme ruler of the land tended to come with the perk of ponies opening doors for you, but Celestia was reasonably certain that she was meant to wait after knocking until someone opened the door. Certainly, that was how the ponies who knocked on her chamber door seemed to behave, waiting there in the hallway patiently until she was done with her letter-writing or her weekly poem.

Somehow, though, as she sat in the streets of Canterlot, her horn glowing as she tugged the sun gently down below the horizon, her stomach rumbling with an absence of doughnuts, Princess Celestia was starting to think that maybe she had waited just a little too long.

---

She would keep her eyes open, no matter how long Velvet Dusk droned on for about café opening hours.

“… so it seems clear to me that the optimal timing for most cafés would be to remain open until early evening, perhaps no later than eight o’clock so as to avoid significantly lengthening shifts…”

The problem, of course, was that her body simply wasn’t used to a night spent staring at its own reflection in the glass of a locked doughnut shop door. Her hunger hadn’t helped matters at first, but a hearty breakfast, elevenses, and lunch soon convinced her that the ache in her barrel had little to do with a lack of food. It didn’t feel like hunger, either; not after breakfast, at least. It felt almost like tiredness.

“… I’ve interviewed a number of local café owners, who have each kindly compiled a list of reasons they would like to see the changes made sooner rather than later…”

Could a lack of sleep really hurt one’s stomach in much the same way that a lack of food might? It seemed like an absurd idea, but Celestia was not really sure that she was awake enough to pass judgement on it. She briefly flickered the light of her horn, checking that the concealment spell over her bloodshot eyes was still working—it was, thank me—and proceeded to nod slowly at the neverending tide of words that was Velvet Dusk.

“… and of course these days a great many ponies do not finish their working day until half past four, or even five o’clock itself, making the mandatory closing hours frustrating for those who would like to…”

Celestia couldn’t help but think that, if Pony Joe’s had been open last night, she might actually have been awake enough to distract herself from Velvet’s talk. But, worryingly, she found her exhausted mind latching onto the words, engaging with them and even (may she forbid it) listening to them, once in a while.

“… and so I’d like to take a moment to discuss the economic ramifications…”

Never mind: Velvet was getting out her charts again.

As Celestia clenched her her jaw and, with centuries of practice, stifled a yawn, she couldn't help but wonder about the little red-and-white sign she had spent so long watching, its taunting little face unsympathetic in its false upset, and how she might ensure that she never had to see it again. Perhaps, if she was lucky, the next petitioner would have a bright idea she could use, if only Velvet Dusk would cease her unending whining about café opening hours and allow them the chance to speak.