It wasn't the January cold that made Vickie and Becki draw their coats tight about them as they exited the café, though after last night's snowfall Paris was certainly chilly enough. It was, rather, the coffee staining both their laps. It was the combination of coffee and cold air, however, that made them abruptly cease grumbling at Mike as they stepped outside. "This had better dry soon," muttered Becki, hugging herself against the wind, "or this'll be one very uncomfortable shopping trip."
"Definitely not a day for an open-air market," Vickie said. "Let's see. Where is the nearest indoor . . ."
"Oh, don't bother with nearest," said Becki. "Let's just find a Métro station, and then I know where we should go."
The Métro wasn't hard to find, and within minutes the two women were sitting in a shuttle bound for the Sèvres-Babylone station. "I, for one, will be very glad to change out of this," said Vickie, trying to absorb some of the coffee out of her sweater with a paper towel. "And after that--we've got to go to the Eiffel Tower!"
"La Tour?1" Becki echoed. "You think we'll find Cheriss there?"
"Oh, probably not. But we can't be in Paris and not go! And I'm sure that if I were Cheriss, I'd be at the Eiffel Tower."
Becki laughed. "And if you were Vickie you'd be there, too. Well, why not? Maybe seeing the city from above will give us a better idea where to look for our spy."
"See, there is always a method to my madness."
Arriving at their station, they disembarked and walked the short distance along the Rue de Sèvres, gaping in wide-eyed awe, until they remembered their intention to not look like tourists on this mission. "Bien," said Becki nonchalantly, "here we are. Le Bon Marché2, oldest department store in Paris. Pretty, n'est-ce pas?"
"Pretty," Vickie chuckled. "Understatement of the week. It sort of reminds me of the High Palace." Becki faltered in her step at that; Vickie pretended not to notice, silently chiding herself for mentioning anything Mendellian. Anything that could remind the younger Terra Group agent of her supposed fiancé at this point--Vickie made a mental note to be more cautious. "Anyway," she said, "I'm sure it's even prettier on the inside. Ready to shop?"
"Ready," Becki nodded, managing at least the beginnings of a smile.
The two women stepped through the front doors of the century old building. Vickie was immediately entranced. "Whoa, look at this architecture."
"Pas de touriste,3" Becki whispered.
She quickly dropped her eyes to take in a nearby display. "Merci. C'est très différent ici.4"
"Oui." Becki moved to the more conservative section of women's clothing and began searching.
Vickie began her search as well. On the Métro, they had seen what was the norm for Parisians today. It really wasn't much different from the big cities in the US. You had the conservative business people and the, well, the not so conservative.
She sorted through a rack of long-sleeved shirts, picking out a few in basic colors. Next she moved to sweaters. It was colder here than in North Carolina. Luckily she found a few cotton sweaters and chose some to try on.
Jeans and slacks seemed the norm. She picked up several pairs of both to try on and headed for the fitting rooms.
Becki, meanwhile, in a bit of a picky mood, moved from one display to the next, quickly finding reasons to dislike each. These skirts were too short for her liking; the neckline of this blouse too daring; and what were the vendors thinking, putting out those spring sundresses so early--for goodness sake, there was snow on the ground outside!
A rack of dressy business clothes reminded her too sharply of the requisite attire from her recently completed semester of student teaching. Shuddering, she turned away--only to find herself face to face with a pair of mannequins, one dressed in a ruby red suit, the other in a dress of royal purple. The flag of Mendellia seemed to hover before her eyes, daring her to send her thoughts where she'd been so careful not to: still no word from Thayer. She'd checked that morning from the Red Home before they had entered Paris, but he hadn't answered her e-mail. And as hasty a person as he was, this delay filled her with foreboding and ate away at her confidence.
Not until she closed her eyes and turned away was the spell of red and purple broken. Then, with a sigh, twisting on her finger the ring made to match the flag, she moved on to the next rack of clothing. Her worries over Thayer had to remain with him in Mendellia. Refocusing her mind on the more immediate question of the spy they'd been sent to find, she finally managed to find a few garments she didn't hate, and soon she headed for the dressing room next to Vickie's.
Vickie tried on an outfit of shirt, sweater and jeans. She looked at herself critically in the mirror. Suddenly, she could see Llessur Atner's reflection in the mirror. She spun around to see nothing but the door behind her. It must be my mind telling me I have something to do. Now, how to go about it.
"So, Becki," she said, trying to start up a conversation. "What do you think of Cochran?"
"Psycho Suicide Boy?" her companion asked with a giggle.
Vickie laughed. "Yeah, him."
"Well," Becki said slowly, considering, "the nickname is fairly accurate--for my first impression of him. Taking on those stormtroopers in the High Palace with a regular pistol. . . . Though, considering that it was me and Crispy cornered by those stormies, I can't complain about Psych's kind of insanity. And since I've gotten to know him better this past year--well, he's all right. Opinionated and very soldier-like, but overall a good person."
"That soldier-ness is one thing I'm trying to break him of. He gets a bit... over enthusiastic at times."
Becki nodded. "He takes everything he does so seriously."
"Including supervising this mission," Vickie said wryly. "I've been wondering what got into Sci to make him lead."
"Something to do with his experience as duty officer in the Bat-cave, I gathered," said Becki. "But it does seem odd, especially with two Captains along for the mission."
Vickie shrugged. "I just hope he can handle it." She paused a moment before continuing. "So, do you think you could help me with getting him to relax a bit?"
Becki paused before answering, glancing towards Vickie's dressing room, wondering what had prompted such a question. Why ask me? she thought. "Well . . . sure, I guess so."
"Great." Vickie smiled broadly. Well, step one is finished. Now on to step two. She finished trying on the clothes and decided what she wanted.
When she stepped out of the dressing room, she found Becki sorting through her own choices. "Which d'you think?" the girl asked. "Très chic5 . . ." She indicated a long-sleeved grey blouse matched with black slacks and a long black cardigan. "Or . . ." With a grin, she indicated a second ensemble, dark blue jeans with a white turtleneck to wear under a red sweater. "Très tricolor6."
"When in France, dress like the French flag?" Vickie chuckled. "Well, if you can't choose, just get both. It's probably going to take us more than a day to find Blade, anyway."
Becki nodded, and they gathered up their purchases and went to check out.
The purchasing system took some getting used to. They headed straight for the nearest cashier to begin with, but said cashier waved them away, explaining that they needed a ticket to check out.
"Ticket?" Becki asked. "What ticket?"
"She means maybe the price tags?" guessed Vickie.
Mais non, said the cashier, she didn't mean the price tags. She waved them away again, and they wandered, confused, back toward the dressing rooms.
"Excusez-moi, mesdemoiselles," a voice from behind them began. "Vous désirez?7"
The two women turned in unison to see a tall, lean young man, dark hair slicked back, matching an equally sleek dark suit. He looked more suited to an executive board room than a department store, but in their relief at his offer to help, Vickie and Becki saw no need to wonder at this.
"Oui, monsieur," Vickie said quickly, holding up the clothes she'd picked out. "On voudrait acheter. . . .8"
"Mais oui," he answered, and explained in French: "Let me have your purchases and I will write out a ticket for them. Then you take that to the cashier and pay, and bring your ticket back to me to receive your purchases back again."
So they did, and soon returned to the helpful young man, who handed them their bags with a smile.
"C'est votre premier jour à Paris?9" he guessed.
"Oui," Becki said, "le premier. Merci, monsieur.10"
"Amusez-vous en ville, mesdemoiselles.11"
They thanked him again and then wandered out of the boutique, looking for a place to change out of their damp clothes. Behind them, the young man watched them go, eyes narrowed. When they were out of sight, he exchanged a glance with the cashier, who nodded briefly and reached for the phone on her counter.