Chapter Eight - *The characters and their world belong to Mr. Whedon and company; the mistakes and the follies are solely mine.

*Previously: Prologue and Chapters up to Seven. - - ::Serenity Cargo Bay:: - River quietly places the black case before Livy as the table ran fingers around the edges of the dessert places, catching the last drops of strawberry sauce or melted chocolate. The girl's face turns to roses-red then white then pink at the familiar shape and weight. She runs her own hand over the clasps, but does not open them. Inara notes her distress, leans over and whispers to her: “Take it for now, Livy. If you find yourself longing for the stars again, you can leave it at the training house. You’ll quickly see the ones outside the Core lack much in details, such as possess of rarer instruments.” “But, the cost. I wanted you too—” “More money than we could spend,” River ends the question before it is fully formed. “Gold buys magic, sometimes, when they can’t see what they’re selling. Play for us. Wants to sing, but can’t all locked up.” The table has quieted down some, they notice the case, the conversation, Livy’s color and agitation. Before they can decide if something has gone wrong, she clicks open the two clasps and smiles round the whole table. “Seems it’s my chance to add to the evening,” she says, but she turns to Jayne and asks him about his guitar, and her smile and voice have him almost running to his bunk to get it. Chairs squeak and clothes rustle as people settle in to hear the girl play. River is beaming, sitting across from Simon. He’s thinking about the last performance he heard, the costly seats, the brilliant hall, the trained ears waiting and room hushed. Livy’s quick tuning and warm-up scales are familiar, parts of a song he knew. To hear them on Serenity, backed by the engine’s hum, through recycled air and wavering candlelight, with Kaylee’s arm brushing his own as they both rest on the table, is disorienting. But only at first, until she begins to really play. Then everything disappears. River is right, Livy’s playing is miraculous; she starts with songs old as Earth-that-was, which have them falling into reverie. Even Jayne just sits, his guitar forgotten. River is the only one to notice the calm faces, the minds drifting far and near, held up by soft sound. But soon enough she’s upped the beat to a cheerful, compelling tune; they match the rhythm with toes and fingers and heartbeats. Jayne, nudged (well hit) by the hostess joins in, and River starts dancing, pulling first Simon than Kaylee into an old-fashioned step. She bows out, leaving them, but pushes Wash and Zoe up, saying things that make him blush and her laugh, and she’s impossible to refuse, mostly since she calls out: “I’ll tell,” to Wash with a knowing look. Wash dances like he talks, all swirls and good humor, and somehow Zoe is graceful and laughing in spite of it. Because of it. Simon and Kaylee for once are in step. River’s got no problem weaving in and out of all them, leading a chuckling Book with her, making their discordant patterns into a happy whole. But when she turns to Inara and Mal, still sitting at the table, he jumps up without prompting, holding out his hand. “What?” Inara asks, and he tugs at her, wondering how she can dig her flimsy shoes into the deck with such success. “Nun-uh, if she can blackmail Wash into dancing, I ain’t gonna even let her try me. I like her staying outta my head.” “And what makes you think she could convince me to dance?” Inara replies, though she’s gotten to her feet. “You sayin’ you ain’t got secrets worth keepin’? River!” he calls, but she puts her hand in his and spins under his arm. “Just hope you can keep up,” she laughs, but Mal tightens his grasp on her hand, pulls her twirling back to him and around, and they’re dancing under floating lights and Livy’s fiddle, and they can’t outrun each other because they’ve no thought to leave. - - A companion and a mind-reader make for a good party. Even ones so young. River and Livy keep their guests dancing; Livy’s music inspires them, and River is skillful at guiding. She draws Jayne in, first with her, then to Kaylee and Zoe and back to her side. The merry musical chairs routine of the dance sweeps past Mal and Inara, who in turn, seem oblivious to the game. They talk, instead, as they dance back and forth, and if Inara is amazed by Mal’s ease and grace, he is shocked that she knows the steps of his homeworld. She tells him stories of nightingales; knows poem fragments and myths of murder and rage too bloody to imagine the little things in. Mal talks about old apple trees near where he went to school, describes climbing them so well Inara feels the breeze lift her hair and sees Shadow’s sky through white petals, flatter than cherry blossoms, but beautiful in their promise of pie. At some point, when Jayne has gone back to playing, River humming nearby, and Book smiling, the music mellows and softens. Without thinking Inara moves closer to Mal, dropping her head to his chest and pulling their twined hands to rest above his heart. “This is nice,” Mal breathes, and Inara nods, grateful, so grateful, she wore a low-backed dress and can feel all of Mal’s hand pressed against her skin. “Why jasmine?” he asks, mumbling into her scented hair. “I was bad at calligraphy.” “Don’t think I follow,” he says, but makes no move to clear his head. Inara traces the symbol for white jasmine over his heart. “I didn’t like practicing calligraphy. When I was young. Very young,” she repeats the symbol, finger light and deft as a brush. Mal sees her as a child in swift clarity. Willful and charming and all kinds of knowing already. “But I did like my mother’s perfume. Or rather, liked watching her put it on, at night, before parties. She had a bottle, very tall and thin. Dark green blown glass. I thought that was what being an adult was like. I asked to have some, I think, and she told me, when I could write what I wanted. Went through the cortex to find all the possible scents and printed a list. Picked jasmine because it looked the most beautiful character. And the most difficult. The brush strokes, here...” she traces li again, “...so delicate, done properly. Thought if I were going to learn one, might as well be one worth learning. My mother was wise. Good at one, I kept practicing more.” “So you got your grown-up bottle.” “Mmmm. White jasmine. Came in a heavy, silvery box. I was so disappointed. Stuck it under my bed. But in a year I was at the Guild training house, and the scent became a way of remembering home.” “That’s a good story,” is his only response. “I could be lying,” she says, though she doesn’t know why. She fully expects him to tense, turn away, stop. He should, at such a stupid slip. Mean for no reason. He starts drawing lines on her back. “You’re not.” “How do you know?” “You only lie me ‘Nara when the truth will break us both.” He’s tracing characters on her back. She knows jasmine immediately, as well as the ones that mean serenity. It takes a while to recognize ye ying, and mei li and shi hua. His lips brush her hair as he traces jia yuan. - - *~*~* -

Translations: li: jasmine (white jasmine or poet’s jasmine) ye ying: nightingale mei li: beautiful, elegant shi hua: truth, sincerity jia yuan: home (phrase from jia: homestead, yuan: garden, orchard)