Too Many Pinkies Plus One [Chapter 9]

 

A fragment has surfaced again, one of those jagged half-memories that doesn’t quite fit either life. A warm kitchen, the smell of savory pastry, two names that feel like family but aren’t the ones I know now. But also a screen, some trivia about MLP facts and potential characters that were scrapped.

 

I slip quietly down the pull-down stairs, hooves careful on the rungs.

 

Pinkie is curled in a nest of blankets on the couch, one leg twitching in whatever dream involves endless cupcakes. I hesitate, then gently poke her shoulder.

 

“Pinkie.”

 

Pinkie’s eyes snap open instantly, mane somehow still perfectly poofy even in the middle of the night.

 

“Diane? What’s wrong? Bad dream? Need cocoa? Want me to sing the lullaby I used to sing to Marble?”

 

I sit on the floor beside the couch, voice low.

 

“No. Just… a question. My memories are still messed up. Other... stuff mixed with pony stuff. Sometimes names come up and I don’t know if they’re real.”

 

Pinkie sits up, rubbing her eyes. “Okay. Ask me anything.”

 

I stare at my hooves as I faintly recall something from my human life. Lauren Faust stating on Twitter that when Pinkie's sisters weren't named, they considered naming them "Mince Meat Pie" and "Chicken Pot Pie".

 

“Were there… sisters? Or maybe cousins? Named Mince Meat Pie and Chicken Pot Pie?” I ask.

 

Pinkie blinks once. Twice. Then her ears droop, not in confusion, but in recognition.

 

“Oh,” she says softly. “Those aren’t pony names.”

 

I look up sharply.

 

Pinkie pulls the blanket around her shoulders like a cape.

 

“When we were fillies, Maud and Limestone and Marble and me… we used to play a game. We’d pretend we had two more sisters who ran away to become famous bakers in the big city. One made only meat pies, mince meat, shepherd’s, all the savory ones. The other made chicken pot pies so good they made ponies cry happy tears.”

 

My breath catches. I already knew in my head that ponies were opportunist carnivores. Browsing videos of horses eating fish and baby chicks will do that to you. Horses needed those precious minerals and salt, and Pinkie Pie just confirmed it.

 

“We gave them the silliest names we could think of,” Pinkie continues, voice gentle. “Mince Meat Pie and Chicken Pot Pie. We’d set extra places at the table sometimes, leave crumbs for them in case they came home. It was our secret game. Nopony else knew.”

 

I’m quiet for a long moment.

 

“So… they weren’t real?”

 

Pinkie shakes her head. “Not real ponies. Just pretend sisters we made up because… well, sometimes four felt like it should be more. We stopped playing it when we got older. I hadn’t thought about them in years.”

 

I exhale slowly, something unsettled in my chest easing just a fraction.

 

“But the names stuck with me,” Pinkie adds. “Deep down. And when the Mirror Pool copied me… maybe that little piece came with you.”

 

I look toward the dark window.

 

“So I didn’t have sisters with those names. But… you did. Imaginary ones.”

 

Pinkie reaches out and rests a hoof on mine.

 

“They were real to us back then. And if they’re real to you now… that’s okay too.”

 

I don’t pull away.

 

“Thanks,” I say quietly.

 

Pinkie smiles, soft and sleepy.

 

“Anytime, Diane. Even for pretend sisters.”

 

I stand, heading back toward the attic stairs.

 

“Night, Pinkie.”

 

“Night, Diane. Sweet dreams, no meat pie surprises, I promise.”

 

I pause on the stairs, the corner of my mouth twitching.

 

“…Never say never Pinkie Pie.”

 

Pinkie’s muffled giggle follows me up into the dark.

 

And for the first time, one of those uncertain memory fragments feels less like a glitch… and more like a gift.

 

===

 

The old farmhouse walls were thick stone on the outside, but the interior partitions were thin pine boards. They built for practicality, not privacy. Sound carried easily on quiet nights, especially when voices dropped to whispers.

 

Limestone had been heading to the kitchen for a late-night glass of water when she heard the soft creak of the attic stairs. She paused in the hallway, ears pricking. Pinkie’s low murmur drifted down, followed by Diane’s quieter, flatter tone.

 

“…Mince Meat Pie and Chicken Pot Pie?”

 

Limestone froze mid-step.

 

She remembered those names. How could she not? She’d been the one who invented “Mince Meat” during a particularly grumpy winter when she was eight, claiming their runaway sister only baked angry, spicy pies that “bit back.” Pinkie had come up with the ridiculous “Chicken Pot Pie” to make Marble giggle.

 

They’d played that game for years, setting extra places at Hearth’s Warming, leaving pie crust crumbs on the porch “in case they came home hungry.” It had been their secret way of saying the house felt too quiet sometimes.

 

Limestone pressed herself against the wall, listening as Pinkie explained gently, carefully, how the sisters had only ever been pretend.

 

Her throat tightened.

 

Diane’s voice, when it came again, was softer than Limestone had ever heard it.

 

“So I didn’t have sisters with those names. But… you did. Imaginary ones.”

 

Limestone’s eyes stung. She didn’t move.

 

Upstairs, in the small room she shared with Maud, Marble lay awake reading by candlelight. The floorboards carried the conversation just as clearly. She set her book down slowly, pulling her quilt tighter.

 

She remembered drawing pictures of the “missing” sisters, stick-figure pink ponies with chef hats. She’d hidden them under her mattress because she’d been too shy to show anypony.

 

Hearing Diane ask about them now, uncertain and searching, made something ache sweetly in her chest.

 

Across the hall, Maud sat on her bed in the dark, Boulder resting on the windowsill. She didn’t need light to hear; the house spoke to her in creaks and whispers the way rock spoke in fractures and veins.

 

She listened without moving.

 

When Pinkie said, “They were real to us back then. And if they’re real to you now… that’s okay too," Maud’s ears angled forward slightly.

 

Diane’s quiet “Thanks” carried genuine relief.

 

Maud placed a hoof on Boulder, tracing his smooth surface.

 

She thought about memory, about how it layered like sediment, and how fragments from deep time sometimes surfaced in unexpected places.

 

Diane carried a piece of their childhood game inside her, pulled through magic or chance or something deeper. A piece none of them had spoken of in years.

 

Maud’s monotone inner voice was steady, but warm.

 

The family had grown by one.

 

And somehow, the pretend sisters had come home after all.

 

Downstairs Limestone finally moved, silently retreating to her room without water.

 

Marble blew out her candle and lay back, a tiny smile on her face.

 

None of them spoke of it the next morning.

 

But at breakfast, Limestone slid the rock-bread basket toward Diane without being asked.

 

Marble added an extra sliced quartz to Diane’s plate, pink-tinted and carefully chosen.

 

Maud simply nodded across the table, a fraction longer than usual.

 

And Pinkie beamed at everypony, sensing the shift even if she didn’t know its cause.

 

Diane noticed the small gestures. She didn’t comment.

 

She just ate her breakfast, quiet and steady, feeling. For the first time, she felt like every part of her, even the uncertain fragments, had found solid ground.

 

===

 

The morning train whistle echoes across the rock fields as Pinkie and I stand on the dusty platform, bags packed and tickets in hoof. The visit has stretched longer than planned, two weeks of hard work, quiet evenings, and the slow, steady weaving of new threads into the family tapestry.

 

The whole Pie family has turned out to see us off, a rare gathering in one place.

 

Igneous steps forward first, solemn as ever. He places a weathered hoof on my shoulder.

 

“Thou hast labored well in our fields, daughter. The rocks remember honest hooves. Return when thou canst.”

 

Cloudy Quartz embraces Pinkie tightly, then turns to me with a softer hug than her stiff demeanor usually allows.

 

“May the Lord of the Rocks guide thy path, child. Thou art ever welcome beneath our roof.”

 

Maud simply nods, pressing a small, polished piece of rose quartz into my hoof.

 

“For your collection,” she says in her monotone. “It has good energy.”

 

Marble lingers shyest, as always. She hugs Pinkie quickly, then surprises everypony, including herself, by stepping forward to wrap her forelegs around me.

 

“Come back soon,” she whispers. “The farm’s quieter when you’re here… in a good way.”

 

I return the hug carefully. “I will.”

 

Pinkie, of course, bounces through a whirlwind of hugs, promises of letters, and threats of surprise parties.

 

“I’ll write every day! And send cupcakes! And maybe a party cannon care package!”

 

Finally, only Limestone remains.

 

She stands a little apart, arms crossed, scowl firmly in place. Yet, her scowl was softer around the edges than it had been two weeks ago.

 

Pinkie tackles her in a rib-cracking hug. “Bye, Limey! Hold down the fort!”

 

Limestone grunts, patting Pinkie’s back awkwardly. “Yeah, yeah. Get out of here before you start singing.”

 

Pinkie giggles and bounds onto the train.

 

Then it’s just Limestone and me on the platform.

 

The train hisses steam. The conductor calls “All aboard.”

 

Limestone shifts her weight, looking anywhere but directly at me.

 

“You… uh… you worked hard,” she mutters. “Didn’t slack. Didn’t complain. Didn’t break anything important.”

 

I wait, patient as stone.

 

Limestone finally meets my eyes.

 

“You took some of the load off. Let me breathe a little. Nopony’s done that without me having to yell at them first.”

 

A pause.

 

“I didn’t hate having you around,” Limestone adds, voice low. “Might’ve even… liked it.”

 

My mouth curves, just slightly.

 

“Same.”

 

Limestone huffs, ears pink.

 

“Don’t get all mushy. Just… come back sometime. The west vein’s still got stubborn slabs. Could use somepony who doesn’t argue with me about wedge placement.”

 

I nod once. “Sure thing.”

 

The conductor calls again.

 

I step toward the train, then pause.

 

“Hey, Limestone.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You don’t have to carry everything alone. Not anymore.”

 

Limestone’s scowl flickers. She looks away, toward the fields.

 

“…Get on the train before you miss it, rookie.”

 

I board. The train whistle blows, and with a slow chug, it pulls away from the station.

 

Limestone stands on the platform long after the smoke has cleared, watching the tracks until they vanish into the horizon.

 

She kicks at a loose pebble, sending it skittering.

 

A new sister.

 

Not loud. Not bouncy. Not trying to fix everything with parties or smiles.

 

Just… there. Steady. Strong in the quiet way.

 

Limestone exhales, a small cloud in the cool morning air.

 

“Tch. Family’s getting bigger,” she mutters to herself.

 

Then, almost too soft to hear:

 

“…Not the worst thing.”

 

She turns back toward the farm, steps a little lighter than when she’d arrived.

 

There’ll be work waiting, always is.

 

But for the first time in a long while, it doesn’t feel like it all rests on her shoulders alone.

 

And that, Limestone Pie admits only to the empty platform and the wide sky, feels pretty okay.

 

===

 

The train pulls into Ponyville station with a familiar hiss of brakes and a puff of steam. Pinkie Pie bounds off first, saddlebags bouncing, already waving wildly at the small welcoming committee of Mr. and Mrs. Cake waiting on the platform. I follow at a much slower pace, wincing with every step. My straight mane is windblown and dusty, my coat streaked with faint gray rock flour that no amount of brushing on the ride home has fully removed. I move like somepony who’s spent two weeks wrestling boulders, and lost most of the matches.

 

Pinkie spins around mid-bounce. “Home sweet home! Sugarcube Corner smells like vanilla and frosting from here! I can’t wait to tell everypony about the farm and the rocks and the—”

 

I let out a low, involuntary groan as I shift my saddlebag. The sound is half exhale, half creak.

 

Pinkie stops bouncing. “You okay?”

 

I ease myself down the last step, legs trembling slightly. “I am bone-breakingly sore. Every muscle I didn’t know I had is screaming. Limestone wasn’t kidding about those slabs.”

 

I roll one shoulder experimentally and immediately regret it.

 

“All that sugar from the free milkshakes I’ve been living on for months?” I add dryly. “Turns out it was the only thing holding my skeleton together. Rock farming burned it all off. I’m running on fumes and spite now.”

 

Pinkie’s ears droop in sympathy. “Oh nooo! We need emergency cupcakes! And a hot bath! And maybe a spa day with Aloe and Lotus! And—”

 

I raise a hoof, managing the faintest smirk despite the ache. “Cupcakes and bath sound good. Spa can wait till I can walk without sounding like Granny Smith’s old rocking chair.”

 

Mrs. Cake hurries over, concern written all over her face. “Goodness, dear, you look like you’ve been through the wringer! Come inside, we’ve got the kettle on and fresh cinnamon rolls just out of the oven.”

 

Mr. Cake takes my saddlebag without asking, slinging it gently over his own back. “You worked yourself half to death out there, didn’t you?”

 

I don’t argue as they guide me toward Sugarcube Corner.

 

“Pretty much,” I admit. “But the farm’s in good shape. Limestone smiled, once. I’m calling it a win.”

 

Pinkie walks beside me, matching the slow pace for once. “You were amazing, Diane. They all love you now. Even Limestone. Especially Limestone.”

 

I huff a quiet laugh, then wince again. “Yeah. Family’s bigger. Muscles are smaller. Worth it.”

 

Inside Sugarcube Corner, the familiar scent of sugar and warm pastry wraps around me like a blanket. I ease myself onto the cushioned bench in the corner booth with a sigh that is half relief, half pain.

 

Pinkie slides a tall, thick chocolate-peanut-butter shake across the table, extra whipped cream, just how I like it.

 

“First aid,” Pinkie declares solemnly.

 

I wrap both hooves around the glass like it’s medicine and take a long, slow sip.

 

The ache doesn’t vanish, but the sugar hits my bloodstream like a warm promise.

 

I lean back against the cushion, eyes half-closing.

 

“Normal feels good,” I murmur. “Sore… but good.”

 

Pinkie sits opposite me, chin on her hooves, grinning softly.

 

“Welcome home, sis.”

 

I don’t open my eyes, but the corner of my mouth lifts.

 

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Home.”