The day started well. The sun came out, the temperature came up, the queue for the Gibbs Island ferry grew longer. Scarves were woven around necks and coffee cups occupied hands. An impressionist's sky of watery blue-greys and barely-there clouds rose through the skyscrapers. Autumn overlaid the city with a shimmer akin to gold leaf.

Agatha was in moderately good spirits. She was in her home city; she had slept well; the coffee at breakfast had been better than usual; she had not had to speak to anyone other than the waiter and a show official all day. The best kind of day. The unexplained absence of her fellow team members might ordinarily have been cause for concern but on this occasion, she could not muster it up within herself to care. She felt no guilt in admitting how liberating it felt to have Archie and Dot out of her hair. Let them push their respective problems upon someone else for a change. Poquelin was warmed up and moving well and she liked the lay of the course. She had enjoyed herself so far and she would prefer she continue to do so. For that, their absences would be key.

Agatha rode into the ring with the slightest of smiles, imagining an idyllic afternoon of fast rounds, sunlit walks along the water, and the distinct absence of people.

Maybe that was the wicked thought which summoned karma back to humble her.

'She rode that rather well.'
'Yes.'
'And a lovely mover, that horse. I wouldn't mind a ride. A pleasure to watch.'
'Mhm.'
'Bit different to your-'

'Do you really want to start down this road?'
'W-'
'Think hard, Archie.'
'Differently gifted, that is. That fellow is gifted in movement, speed, grace- all the unimportant things in show jumping-'

'I'm not interested in your sarcasm.'

'-whereas your Poquelin is phenomenally gifted in his ability to surpass all other horses when it comes to being the absolute worst behaved horse in the ring on the day.'
'He's not the worst behaved horse-'
'No? Let's ask the prints I'll be ordering promptly from the event photographer.'

His expression was equal parts mirth and mock-scepticism. Agatha pursed her lips and turned back to watch the next rider canter into the ring.

'He's not the worst. He's just the least best.'

Autumns in Southern California don’t exist.

At most, the trees humble themselves to yellow their leaves. The honeybees still buzz about all the same, traveling from flower to flower under the sun’s brilliant wrath. Even if SoCal is lucky enough to get rain, the hillsides along the freeway stay brown (gold if you want to glorify it) like they do all summer. Purple mountains that background your average SoCal landscape remain capless, waiting for snow. Romanticizing autumn in California becomes easy, normal. You can sip your PSL in 60-degree “sweater weather” like regular autumn-observers do, but it’s fake. That must be why Californians are so obsessed with it.

Ingrid’s one of those average Southern Californians. Can’t tell the difference between 40- and 50-degree weather but knows they’re both just cold. Now she’s on an order of business, picking up a mare in Ontario. Ontario, Canada; not Ontario, California.

Gilded in the fiery palette of the season, Canadian maples sparkle to Ingrid’s summer-weary eyes, and did a chill bite her cheeks just now? Ingrid is so enchanted by the autumn she almost forgets her mare. Honeybee is her name. Reminiscent of home. Ingrid and Bee are lucky: there’s a show five hours away, and competing in it delays the return home by two days. They go to embrace the autumn a little longer.

This is the gold that can’t stay.