Bright Star stomped across the floor, her rage further fueled by the circuitous path she had to take to avoid Featherbrain’s belongings. It appeared as if the pegasus had emptied her trunk by making a mini tornado—her journals and papers were scattered all around the room—mixed with half-empty jars of feather gloss and mane and tail shampoo. A small collection of badly-wrinkled formal clothes were laid out on the bed and bench; three striped socks were draped over the headboard.