The Part That Matched

I brought the envelope to Twilight’s library with both forelegs around it, like it might bolt if I gave it room.

Twilight had cleared a space on the table. Beside it sat a fresh sheet of paper, two pencils, and the communication crystal Nettle had arranged to use. Spike was out, which left the library quiet enough for me to hear the envelope scrape against the tabletop.

“Before we open anything, I want the notes copied into the record,” Twilight said, setting one hoof on the blank sheet. “Then we can make sure the schedule doesn’t change what you remember writing.”

“Good. I’d hate for my memory to start improvising after the fact. That’s my job.” I set the envelope down. “The notes are all in here. Six periods, in order. Sensations, times, and anything I thought might confuse things.”

Twilight slid the pencil toward me. “You can read them. I’ll write exactly what you wrote, including the uncertain parts.”

My seal had been folded over and signed. I ran a hoof along the edge, then broke it. The paper inside had the plain, cramped handwriting I’d been using since my new horn made writing possible. It still looked like mine, more or less. One of the stranger adjustments was how much I appreciated that.

I read each entry aloud while Twilight copied it. Period one: light pressure at the base of my horn, beginning twelve minutes into the window, then easing afterward. Period two: no clear change. Period three: pressure and warmth, stronger than the first period, beginning eight minutes in. Period four: faint pressure, but it had started before the window. Period five: nothing I could confidently record. Period six: pressure and warmth again, beginning sixteen minutes in.

Twilight stopped her pencil at the fourth entry. “You noted that it began before the window.”

“I did. I was already tired, and I didn’t want a sensation from the previous hour sneaking into the test dressed as new evidence.” I leaned closer to check her copy. “That’s the whole list. No other symptoms, nothing above mild. I did ordinary things between periods.”

She turned the sheet around. Every entry matched. “I’ll sign this as a copy of your sealed notes. Then we can request the schedule.”

The communication crystal sat in its brass cradle. Twilight touched its rim with her horn, and a pale glow gathered inside. The surface shivered once. Nettle’s voice came through, a little thin with distance.

“Have David’s observations been recorded and signed?”

Twilight drew the sheet back and put her mark at the bottom. “They have. We’re ready for the schedule.”

“Then I’ll read it. Six periods, randomized before the trial. One was exposed crystal, zero was sham handling.” A small pause crackled through the crystal. “One, exposed. Two, sham. Three, exposed. Four, sham. Five, sham. Six, exposed.”