However, the melancholy Pinkamena urged caution.  Slipping a single cupcake into Lyra’s saddlebags had seemed like such a good idea, but all day she’d had random twitches and pinches that she couldn't make heads nor tails of—it was like something was jerking the strings of probability which made her . . . her.  It reminded her of a distant thunderstorm over the Everfree—the kind where she always kept a wary eye to the sky, because it could get out of the Weather Patrol’s hooves and go practically anywhere.  