With her customary grave courtesy, Chenann had accepted the invitation to join them on the shopping trip. Susan and Lyta, arriving on the heels of Delenn's brief conversation with her mother, were delighted at the addition to their ranks. Now, on their way to pick up the Tzetai, Delenn wished she could feel half as pleased. "Stop worrying," Mayan murmured in her ear. "Whatever happens, will happen."
"As the humans put it, 'easy for you to say.'" Delenn sighed, then determinedly squelched her nervousness. She was tired of being afraid of her mother. It was unfair as well. So far, Tzetai Chenann had neither said nor done anything to indicate opposition to the upcoming marriage, not even after the catastrophe of the dinner. If anything, she seemed willing to give John a second chance. Delenn's imagination was simply running away with her.
"Is she really a fire-eyed ogre with three heads?" Lyta asked, with an innocent look. Delenn couldn't help laughing at the image, and her tension evaporated like morning mist. Thank you, she told Lyta silently, knowing the telepath would hear and understand just how deeply she meant it.
Tzetai Chenann was waiting when they arrived. The women milled in the corridor outside her room, discussing where to go first. "I know the perfect place," Ivanova said. "Belle Dame... you know, Delenn, where you got—"
"I think I would prefer to start elsewhere," Delenn broke in. "If I understand correctly, for humans as for Minbari, the preparations are as great a part of a wedding as the ritual itself. We must therefore do this properly, and visit several places—to 'comparison shop,' yes?"
"There's a bridal store at the north end of the Zocalo—a couple of slots down from Dante's Pizzeria," Lyta suggested.
"That place?" Ivanova snorted. "We'll end up looking like couches."
"Not necessarily. They've had a few nice things in the window."
"Yeah. Once." She turned to Delenn. "You promised no ugly dresses. So why don't we just go to Belle—"
"Perhaps there are other alternatives," Mayan suggested. "Is it not for Delenn to choose?"
"Sure. Of course." Susan gave Delenn a puzzled smile. "I just thought, since you had good luck there a couple of times—"
"Ah, but we do not wish to be too lucky, too soon." Delenn smiled back. "We must do this correctly, after all, and make a morning of it. Yes?"
"Emphatically yes," Lyta said, patting the pocket where her credit chip rested. "How about we start at the north end of the Zocalo and work our way down?"
The first three places had nothing suitable, a depressing fact that Delenn recognized all too soon. They were getting closer and closer to Belle Dame... and while she would have been happy to buy there on any other occasion, she did not want Chenann to get too close a look at the merchandise. She might well be scandalized if she found out what Delenn had purchased—especially that second gown, the shimmering one with almost no shoulders that John liked so much. She had felt deliciously daring the first time she tried it on. The thought of Chenann seeing her in it—or even visualizing her in something similar—made her blush to the roots of her hair.
"You want to stop for something to drink?" Susan sounded mildly concerned. "You look a little flushed."
"That would be most welcome, yes." Anything to postpone the moment when they had to walk into Belle Dame. There was no good reason to skip it. There was every reason to go there, in fact. Delenn clung to the slim hope that the last shop before it might have something acceptable.
A forlorn hope, as she might have expected. The sales clerk, wearing a skirt and jacket that had clearly seen past lives as sofa cushions, brought out dress after dress in odd colors: not-quite-blue, not-quite-green, an uneasy compromise between white and tan, a bizarre grayed yellow that resembled dusty butter. The last straw was the cranberry-red sheath adorned with blazing purple ameboid shapes from left hip to right shoulder. Controlling a shudder, Delenn bowed to the inevitable, thanked the saleswoman, and led the way to Belle Dame.
"Hey, long time no see!" Yet another sales clerk, this one fashionably attired in a one-shoulder black silk sheath with matching shoes, bore down on them with a delighted smile. Her two-tone blonde ponytail bobbed over the clothed shoulder. The other was decorated with a crescent moon in iridescent ink. The voice and the casual greeting marked her as Rona, whom Delenn had found so helpful on her previous trips—though the last time, Rona's hair had been redder than Lyta's. The time before that, it had matched her silver tunic and slacks. "Great to see you again, Ambassador. You too, Commander. What can I do for you today?"
Briefly, Delenn explained what they wanted. If she could keep this quick enough, perhaps they could buy and get out before Tzetai Chenann had much chance to explore her surroundings. She closed her mind to the sight of the mannequin nearest her mother, which wore a thigh-length bolt of rose satin with lacy cutouts over its breasts. A matching robe, slightly longer, hung open and slightly flared to show off both pieces. From what she'd gathered on prior visits, garments like those were sleepwear...well, bedwear, anyway. Though she'd seen a few "little black dresses" almost as indecently short... Sternly, she marshaled her thoughts toward the task at hand.
Rona was giving Lyta a professional once-over. "How do you feel about green?"
"No sea foam. Other than that..." Lyta ended her answer with a shrug.
"Wait here." Rona beamed at them and then vanished into the rows of clothing racks. A minute later, she reappeared with her arms full of shimmering fabric. "Here you go. The color only redheads can get away with. Why not flaunt it?" Arm stretched to its full length to keep the hem from dragging, she handed over an emerald-green, one-shoulder gown. "You've got a nice shape; the straight cut'll show that off. At the same time, it's simple and classic enough for lots of dressy occasions; it doesn't scream 'bridesmaid' at you." She nodded toward a freestanding three-way mirror nearby. "Go on, hold it up. See how you like it."
As Lyta moved off, Rona turned toward Ivanova. "Now, for you—" She handed over a second gown, this one the delicate shade of a green apple. "Different hues, same color spectrum; much more stylish than matching dresses. Anybody can do those; you want something special. And you've got the perfect complexion for this shade. The dress is a petite; it should hit you in all the right spots." She gave Ivanova a conspiratorial grin. "I don't have to tell you where the fitting rooms are."
"Be right back." Eagerly, Ivanova headed off.
Alone with Chenann and the salesgirl, Delenn felt her palms growing cold. Rona was holding one more garment—short, lace-trimmed, the color of red wine by candlelight. "This is for you," Rona said, beaming like a small sun. "A little something for the wedding night. Not too much, I know that's not your thing... but you can't go wrong with a nice piece of silk." She raised her eyebrows suggestively. "And a little lace in all the right places...?"
"This is not for the ceremony?" Chenann was looking at the scrap of burgundy silk with innocent interest. Delenn bit the inside of her lip hard and waited for disaster.
"It's lingerie." Scenting a new customer, Rona perked up even more. "Fun stuff for bedtime." She reached under the brief skirt and unhooked something. Delenn just managed to suppress a shudder as Rona pulled out a pair of panties with a lace panel in the crotch. "I guarantee you, Captain Sheridan'll have fun with this. So will you." She held out both pieces to Delenn. "You want to try them on?"
The world seemed to stop for a moment. Delenn was sharply conscious of her mother's nearby breathing, Rona's smiling face, Lyta's concerned gaze from halfway across the room. Then Chenann spoke.
"I have not seen this color." She sounded mildly curious. "Is it native to Earth?"
"Claret—that's what the catalog calls it." Rona cocked her head at Chenann. "You're new to B-Five, aren't you? I see pretty much everyone around here; I like to people-watch when things get slow, and with that big front window right onto the food court..." She shook her head with a light laugh. "Sorry. I'm babbling. I get like that around new people. Anyway, claret is a kind of wine. Wine has lots of romantic associations for humans...a loaf of bread, a jug of wine and thou, that kind of thing." She reclipped the panties to the hanger. "Which is what slinky lingerie is all about. Would you like to try some on? This one, or something else...we have lots of styles to choose from."
Delenn felt as if she'd forgotten how to breathe. Chenann's unexpected reply—"Thank you, yes"—seemed to come from impossibly far away. A hand at her elbow made her jump. She turned her head and saw Lyta, green dress draped over one arm. The other locked through Delenn's and gently pulled her toward the dress racks.
"Wait—I... she... I must—" Protesting weakly, Delenn allowed herself to be led away.
"You wanted her to get an education; well, she's getting it." Lyta didn't slacken her grip. "Come on. Help me look through these, in case I change my mind."
The last thing Delenn saw, before the bolts of bright color swallowed them up, was a delighted Rona handing Chenann a bodysuit made entirely of blood-red lace and festooned with tiny ribbons. Chenann's expression was unreadable. Delenn shuddered and turned her gaze away.
ooOoo
The scuffed duffel bag on the hard bed was nearly full of his meager possessions. Wade tossed in the last two wadded-up shirts and a pair of shoes, then zipped the bag and surveyed the empty room. He'd spent his last night in this scruffy dump, hopefully his last night on B5 for a long time. He could hardly wait to finish the job and get back to Earth. No more aliens, no more scum who called themselves humans but betrayed everything the Earth Alliance stood for every time they opened their mouths. Plus, there'd be a nice fat chunk of credit waiting for him to spend it. He looked forward to that most of all.
As he slung the duffel over his shoulder, the comm unit beeped. "On," he barked. No one should be calling him at this stage of the op. The screen flickered to life, showing a cat-faced woman with a scar on her cheek and spiky black hair. Even from across the room, he could tell it needed a wash. She was glaring at him, the kind of look his ex-wife used to give him.
"You Wade Smith?" she asked, in a voice as rough as her face. She spoke his name as if it soiled her mouth.
A real Miss Personality, this one. The Corps must be getting desperate. With an effort, he kept himself from matching her tone. "That's me."
Her scowl deepened. "Mr. Psi Corps said call you if something came up. Something did."
His stomach went cold. "What?"
"Engine trouble. Got it fixed now, but I'm running behind."
"How behind?"
"Hour or so, maybe more. You still want this delivery?"
He bit the inside of his lip, where she wouldn't see it. An hour's delay or more was cutting it dangerously close. According to Garibaldi, Sheridan's day was clear until around 1500 hours at least—no one would meet him or be expecting him to show up someplace much before then. The transplant would take time, as would getting the cargo from the bay to the safe room in Downbelow. He'd already told Garibaldi to set the meet for 1300; if the ship couldn't even get here until then, never mind docked and unloaded, they'd have to keep Sheridan on ice for longer than he felt comfortable with. With luck, though, they might still get the critter in place and Sheridan out of Downbelow before anyone got worried. Bureaucratic drekwork tended to run overtime, and if Sheridan wasn't expected anywhere until late that afternoon...
Gut instinct warned him they'd be cutting it too fine, but they didn't dare back out now. Clark wanted results, and if he didn't get them, heads would roll. One of them might be Wade's.
That last thought decided him. "Yeah. Make the drop-off. We'll take it from there."
ooOoo
"I've always been kind of a blues-and-purples person," Ivanova commented as Rona rang up her sale. Lyta had already bought her dress, and was waiting with the two Minbari by the end of the counter. "Never thought I'd own anything this color. But it's gorgeous."
"Didn't I tell you?" Smiling, Rona ran Ivanova's credit chit through the scanner. "The day I steer you wrong, you can buy ice skates for Hell." After swathing the gown in protective plastic, she handed it and the chit to Ivanova. Then, to Chenann: "You're sure you don't want anything? That thigh-length number in turquoise silk looked pretty good on you."
"I am sure. Thank you." The slight nod that accompanied Chenann's answer indicated nothing. She might have used the same gesture to any merchant on Minbar. Delenn ground her teeth, then caught herself and stopped. It was just possible that the morning's shopping had left Chenann as unruffled as she appeared. An image of her mother eyeballing a bright pink bustier-and-garters set, trimmed in white fake fur, rose in Delenn's mind. She suppressed a groan with an effort. And perhaps I shall sprout wings and fly away.
Chenann had tried on the pink ensemble, of course—along with several others, in varying degrees of tastefulness. To refuse any would have insulted Rona. She had not seemed particularly shocked by any of the garments, but Delenn distrusted her own ability to read Chenann. She is a Sister of Valeria, trained in disciplines I have only read of in ancient scrolls. I scarcely know her. How can I tell what she is thinking or feeling, if she does not wish me to know?
The question nagged at her all the way back to the residential sector. She managed to make the proper polite noises when they dropped off Ivanova and Lyta, and to offer to escort Chenann back to her own door. The two women proceeded in silence, while Delenn debated furiously with herself what to do next. Had the hour in Belle Dame lowered the Tzetai's opinion of humans? If it had, what of John's chances alone with her? Would she expect another awful blunder—perhaps even see one where it didn't exist? I cannot know unless I ask. But if I ask such a blunt question, she will surely blame my time among humans for such rudeness. Which won't help John at all. Oh, Valen, what am I to do?
She was no closer to an answer by the time they reached Chenann's quarters. To Delenn's surprise, her mother hesitated in the open doorway. "Will you honor me by sharing a cup of tea?"
Delenn felt cold. She wants to talk. This cannot be good. Mechanically, she gave the correct answering bow. "The honor is mine, Tzetai."
As was expected of a guest, Delenn sat in silence and watched as Chenann prepared two cups of nich'on tea according to the ancient ritual. Every passing second scraped like hot metal across her nerves. The hiss of hot water from the kettle, the muffled crunch of the dipper in the dried berries, the clink of stirring sticks against cups, all grated on her ears like a nail on glass. By the time she took her cup from Chenann, she wanted to scream until the bulkheads blew. Iron discipline enabled her to take the first ritual sip, but she could feel her control fraying. She allowed herself the momentary release of a glare across her cup at Tzetai Chenann's head, while Chenann's gaze was safely hidden by drinking. Even the best-mannered telepath could surely sense her agitation by now. She might as well be shouting it from a mountaintop. For the love of Valen, would the woman never speak?
Eyes on her tea, Chenann drew breath. Delenn braced herself for the worst.
"I must thank you for an... interesting morning," Chenann began.
Later, Delenn would blame that little pause in mid-sentence. As if divided in two, she watched herself set down her teacup with controlled force. "The time for politeness is over. You might as well tell me what you really think. And why you are really here."
Chenann's blank face—and her own good sense, arriving a heartbeat too late—told her how badly she had erred. The stammered apology she felt like making would only call more attention to her shocking breach of decorum. Nothing left but to brazen it out. She lifted her chin and folded her arms, in a deliberately human gesture. "Well?"
Gently, Chenann set down her own cup. "Why do you believe I am here?"
"I don't know. That is why I ask."
"I came to observe—Sheridan, humans, you. You asked for my blessing; how can I give it if I do not know whether this marriage is right for you? And how can I know that without knowing the man you love, and the ways of his people?"
It sounded so reasonable. She wanted to believe it. But she knew too well how adept a Minbari could be at hiding the truth. Lies were not required. Only reasonable-sounding partial truths that deflected attention from the whole. And Elder Callenn had agreed to this marriage much against his will...
Chenann's soft question interrupted her thoughts. "Do you have so little faith in your beloved?"
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. Little faith? In John? "Forgive me, Tzetai, but you cannot know how foolish a question that is."
"Enlighten me."
The sudden chill in Chenann's voice should have made Delenn even more nervous, but the truth that sprang to her lips overrode all her fears. "He came back from the dead for me. I will lose my faith in the air we breathe before I lose it in him."
"Then I am the one you lack faith in," Chenann said, after a pause. She sounded very small.
Silence stretched between them. Delenn could read the sadness in her mother's eyes more clearly than if Chenann had put it into words. The silence became a chasm, one so wide that all the regret in the universe couldn't tell her how to bridge it.
"I don't know you," she said at last. Not a kind answer, perhaps, but honest.
Chenann bowed her head in acknowledgment. When she looked up, her eyes were very bright. She moved her hands in a gesture of peace, along with an attempt at a smile that made Delenn's throat hurt. "Your father never softened what needed to be said, either. You learned well from him."
I'm sorry, she wanted to say, but knew it would do no good. Instead, she bowed with deep respect. "You are tired. I should go."
"Yes." Chenann looked down at her lap. "I will... rest awhile."
She left her mother kneeling on the floor, staring into a cooling cup of tea as if seeing down the gulf of years.