Mr. Tailcoat sat by an empty fireplace staring blankly at the cold stone. Another cursory glance at his pocket watch informed him that barely two minutes had transpired since last checking. As it were, the day had grown agonizingly long from the anticipation of some rare unpleasantness.

	“Ms. Brush, my great aunt was arriving at three, was she not?” the sallow gentlecolt said, turning to his chambermaid.

	“Aye, she said as much in yesterday’s letter,” replied Ms. Brush who rapidly produced a yellowed piece of paper as if expecting the question. “Yes, right here: shortly before four so as not to be late for tea.”

	“Well that is surely not three!” Mr. Tailcoat started with an audible frown. “Why, shortly before four may be half-past the hour or possibly a quarter-until!”

	“But three is certainly shortlier before four than two or even three-quarters past.” the chambermaid chirped happily.

	“And two is when I deigned to plant myself here to wait for my horrid great aunt’s arrival. What a bore that my planning should be rewarded with such drudgery!”

	“Why on earth would you sit for two hours when a single hour would have more than sufficed?” she asked with watered down confusion.

	“My idea of time is quite different from hers.” He narrowed his eyes. “To be out for a moment is a minute, barely two for me. Yet a moment may as well stretch from morning to midday for her. However, were she to write of visiting in the late afternoon, it should not surprise you to find her prodding you awake at sunrise.”

	“Hmm I see; yes, I understand.” Ms. Brush did not understand.

	“In brief, whatever is most inconvenient for me is how she will have it. Thus I eschewed my studies and my garden to sit here at two, anticipating her early arrival where she would have undoubtedly intended to catch me off guard otherwise.”

	Ms. Brush tilted her head to one side. “Perhaps she anticipated that you would anticipate her early arrival and chose instead to arrive late?”

	Mr. Tailcoat opened his mouth to retort only to realize that he could not find a single fault with this argument. Yes, that would be perfectly characteristic of Great Aunt Fropp. With a slight jingle of the chain, he checked the watch again. The second hand struck one minute until three, and if not at that very moment, the sound of carriage and chattel disturbed the silence of the drive outside the house.

	“Well saint’s bones!” declared Ms. Brush, “Seems I was wrong after all!”

	The gentlecolt closed his watch, eye slightly twitching as a few loud thuds from the all too heavy door knocker resounded through the chamber. The chambermaid’s eyes widened.

	“Absolutely amazing that an old mare like her could lift that heavy knocker much less pound it with such bloom and ardor!”

	“Do get the door before her bloom and ardor bring down the ceiling!” he yelled, head already aching while the knocking continued with unabated intensity.

	Yet the moment Ms. Brush touched the knob, the thunder ceased as if the pony on the other side had somehow sensed her intention. Then with a crack and mournful creak, the veritable slab of alder separating this world of the chamber to that beyond the threshold swung open. The sunlight of three o’clock oozed in and with it, an old mare adorned in enough lace and other fineries of the rural gentry to resemble a walking banquet hall tablecloth. And despite tracking an acreage of freshly trodden autumn leaves into the chamber, there was not a speck to be found on her laboriously assembled outfit.
	
	“Oh Nephew! It has been so very long, and yet you can’t even be bothered to light a fire for your dearest great aunt!” she crowed, “Not even an ember for my precious bones!'' She continued as Ms. Brush began to hurry about, collecting pokers, shovels, and tongs in her hooves and a sack of wood on her back before scuttling to the hearth, catching an escaping log in her mouth along the way. She dumped the tools with a ringing crash, precipitating a multi-octaval whine from the old mare.

	Mr. Tailcoat started, briefly stunned by the sudden exchange, “Wait, no! What is this? Ms. Brush that is hardly necessary! Great Aunt Fropp, dearest, it is all I can do to stave off sweats during the night, and you are already so err… generously accoutered.” he all but pleaded. “The sun too is still high and does not look keen to sink, so please take what hospitality I can offer within reason.” he finished, nearly out of breath.

	There were a few uncomfortable moments of silence punctuated only by the braying of the chattel outside, but soon the old mare opened her mouth, narrowing her eyes. “I suppose it shall be a slow death for me after all!” she intoned theatrically.

	'Too slow a death if you ask me.' Mr. Tailcoat thought to himself while turning to Ms. Brush and gesturing at her to start picking up the pile of wrought iron she had just deposited.

	'The dusty old bag will find a way to outlive us all.'

	“You poor, old dear!” Ms. Brush lamented with no sense of irony as she tried to haphazardly tote an arsenal’s worth of hearth implements. “If there’s anything I could do at all-”

	“Oh, bless you!” Great Aunt Fropp interrupted, “If you could fetch me some black tea, Marejeeling please.”

	Mr. Tailcoat sneered, and the old mare turned creakingly to look at her nephew. “Surely, you don’t mind taking tea a bit early?”

	“You would of course ask for my most expensive blend.”

	“I wouldn’t expect you to present yourself as anything lesser.” She quipped back, breaking her pitiful act if only momentarily.

	“Made all the more expensive by the blockade in the South Chineighs,” he finished, disregarding his aunt’s statement entirely.

	“But what’s a few hundred bits in creative imports for this family?” she said with a hollow chuckle. “Speaking of which-”

	Mr. Tailcoat rolled his eyes. “Yes, there we are: the reason for your spur-of-the-moment visit.”

	“How dreadful! May an ailing old pony such as myself not drop by on a lovely Summer's day to visit her grandnephew with a respectable property offer?”

	Mr. Tailcoat buried his face in his hooves, groaning.