        Now she lies on the floor, exhausted and worried.  She will tell her parents that it was an accident, that she tried to fix it, that she couldn’t find all the pieces.  Her mother will scold her; her father will look at the vase admiringly.  Her simple spell has knitted it back together well enough.  Later that night, her parents will talk about it in low tones, chuckling to themselves about the precociousness of foals.  The vase will be removed from the table, never to be seen again.  Twilight, of course, will assume that her parents have thrown it away, but they have kept it, a proud trophy of foalhood, not dissimilar to the mouth-drawn stickpony crayon art tacked on the kitchen cupboards, or the splintery impractical napkin holder that graces the dining room table.