A little bird told him that he should talk to Lesa about it, but he always shooed it away. How would the discussion go? Honey, I know you're a seal; I think we should sit down and talk? Wait, do seals sit? Maybe we should swim and talk. That's what he liked about mechanical engineering; it did not rely on the imprecision of words. Everything was math and fact and the final product either worked or it did not. If it didn't one went back to the last decision point and tried again.

He reasoned it out. She couldn't help. She was worse off than he was for she was burdened with the iron certainty of centuries that it couldn't be done. Monty had no such preconceptions. He would do what inventors had done through the ages. He would see it through to the end, then flip the switch and see if the lights came on.

He went to her bridal dress fitter instead. "Can you do it?" he asked.

"If it's solid, I can fit it," he said. "But I don't work on illegal goods. Got a permit?"

"It's laboratory grown," said Monty. He produced the lab certificate.

The tailor looked it over and grunted. "I'll need to keep this until you pick it up. You want the entire body?"

"Entire. Head, feet, hands, all of it."

"You want eye holes? A mouth?"

Monty faltered. How the blazes was he supposed to know? "Sure, I guess."

"How about--" The tailor gestured below his belt. His eyes narrowed. "Are you going to be using it for any funny business?"

"Certainly not!" Monty flushed beet red and his brogue trebled in intensity. "What dae yae think Ah ahm?"

"A man commissioning a fur suit for his bride in time for their honeymoon."

Monty groaned inwardly. He sincerely hoped this man did not know any of his friends or family. "Nothing but the eye and mouth holes," he said. "It'll be ready for the wedding day?"

"She can pick it up with the dress, if she wants."

"No! Don't tell her! I'll pick it up meself. It's a surprise."

The tailor's eyebrows rose again.

"Not like that--" Monty began.

"None of my business; I just sew the stuff. Just tell me where you want the fabriseal. Back? Side? Middle?"

"No fabriseal," said Monty.

"Well how do you expect to get the blame thing closed?"

"You're the tailor! I'm a mechanic. Ye come to me with a flitter; I'll tell you how it should be fixed, nae the other way 'round. I come to you with an outfit, I expect you to work out the details. No synthetic anything. Not the thread, not the closings."

He fingered the leathery base of the fur. "I suppose I could make buttons out of this."

"Fine. Whatever works. And call me when it's done. Anything else?"

The tailor held out his hand.

Monty passed over a credit chit. He'd heard that Kilimanjaro had been ruined by the tourists anyway.

It was ready a week ahead of time. Monty went by to pick it up. "Don't you want the lady to try it on for fit?"

Monty quirked his head. "I don't think an inch here or there will make any difference."

The tailor passed him a box and a bag.

"Here, what's this?'

"The scrap fur. Grown or not, I don't want it on the premises without the lab receipt."

Monty peeked in the bag. There was rather a lot of scrap. It seemed like a shame, considering what he'd paid. He punched info up on his flitter guidance console and headed for the nearest art guild.

"Pardon me," he said to the woman who greeted him. "Can you make custom paintbrushes?"

Monty came to the door with one box in each hand. His mother stuck her head out. "Go away! It's bad luck to see the bride on the wedding day."

"Bad luck for the bride, the groom, or for the marriage?" asked Monty.

"It's all the same," said his mother. It wasn't often that she was so far off base.

"Lesa!" Monty called through the door.

Lesa came rushing to the entrance.

"Kids," said his mother with an I-wash-me-hands-off-of-ye scoff that didn't fool anyone.

"I have something for you." Monty raised the packages up to eye level.

"I didn't think that the groom gives bridal presents," she said eyeing them nonetheless.

"Well, you're not just any bride. These are special."

"Well," she stood aside. "Come in; show me."

Monty hesitated. "Why don't you come out to the flitter. I want to show you in privacy."

"Let me get my shoes."

"If you want." Monty spoke to her back as she rummaged in the closet. "But I doubt that you'll need them."

She popped into the front passenger seat. "So, what have I got?" She reached for the big box.

"No, this one first." Monty handed the smaller box to her.

She started to peel neatly at the paper with her nails, but gave up rapidly and ripped it open. Inside was a set of paintbrushes--at least thirty different sizes and styles.

"You've seemed so lost without you…painting. I thought maybe if you started again--"

Lesa picked up a thick filbert and brushed it against her cheek. Her eyes widened. "Monty!" She picked up another brush and then another. "Monty, where did get the fibers?"

"Do you like them?"

"They're perfect, but I need to know, where did you get them?"

"I grew them--or had them grown for you, maybe I should say."

"These are very, very rare. How--?"

"Open the other one." Monty prodded it at her.

"I really need to know how--"

"Open it. I'll answer it after, if you still want."

Lesa tore open the wrapping and threw aside the box top to pull out a sealskin body suit, sized it seemed just for her. She stared between it and Monty, then threw her arms around his neck and began to cry. At first it was gasping little sobs, unsure of what to do next. Then it became full body wracking heaving sobs heavy with everything she had held inside for so long.

Monty held her through it all, her long hair splayed out over her back and around her shoulders almost covering her slight body from his view. "Thank you! How'd you know? I love you!" she kept repeating.

Irony is a curious phenomenon. For the first time everything was out in the open, but paradoxically Monty found that, for that very reason, he had no idea what to say.