        She groans, a strange memory of sitting before a Judicial Council playing through her mind.  Her mother is sitting at a table in front of them, a lead cone over her horn so she can’t use her magic.  Her brick-colored pelt is neater than Twilight remembered it ever having been, and her platinum mane is neatly combed and her tail is braided.  Twilight looks down, and she is holding her mother’s book in her hooves, clutching it like a security blanket.   Her mother is sobbing into her hooves as the magistrate reads out the sentence.