by Renee Ahdieh
Yumi waited.
“It was not long after my parents formalized the match with Prince Raiden,” Mariko said. “When I wished to do something bold that only I would know, that only I would understand. I seduced a young man in a hay loft, with the intention of losing my maidenhead to him purely out of spite.”
Yumi’s eyes went wide.
Mariko continued. “But that wasn’t the only reason. I did it for myself; so that I would not feel like a piece of chattel traded at the whim of men. So that I would know at least one part of myself I gave of my own will.”
Yumi kept silent.
Toying with the rim of her cup, Mariko averted her gaze. “I learned something else that afternoon, though it would take me an unforgivable amount of time to realize it fully. I learned how unaware I was of life outside my experience. I used that poor boy like a thing to be discarded, never once considering what might happen to him.” Something caught in her throat, a shimmer welling in her dark eyes. “Do you know the most important time I realized my own ignorance?
Yumi shook her head.
“It was that night you and I first met, at the teahouse next door. When I watched you dance wearing a mask meant to entice, and I was so jealous of you. Even more jealous when I saw you doff the mask for Ōkami. I knew at that moment how much you cared for each other. I realized then that every person has a story to tell. And for every person, that story is the most important one. Since the day I first saw you, that feeling has stayed with me.” Her eyes locked on Yumi, her expression wholly without guile. “I never want to be the kind of person who uses others solely for her own gain again.”
In silence, Yumi moved to her dressing table. Her chest felt strangely tense, though her soul felt lighter than she could recall it being for a long time. She twisted the lid off a jar of white paint, then dipped a dampened sea sponge in its center. With careful patting motions, she covered her face and neck until they were coated in a thin layer resembling the palest cream. Then she picked up a charred piece of paulownia wood, holding its edge to a flame until it began to smolder. Yumi felt Mariko’s gaze on her as she used the ashes to darken her eyebrows.
“What do you see when you look at me, Mariko?” Yumi asked while she painted careful lines above her eyelashes with a three-haired brush.
“A maiko. A smart, lovely young woman.”
“Anything more?”
“I see mystery and sadness. Anger. Not necessarily because you were born a woman”—Mariko smiled in obvious remembrance of what Yumi had said not too long ago—“but more because you have always been treated as less than what you are.”
“Those feelings are to be expected,” Yumi said. “Young women do not find their way to an okiya from a place of hope. Whatever mystery you sense is the work of my trade.” She put down the smoldering paulownia wood. “In truth, I hate the idea of mystery, and if I could, I would say whatever I wanted and do whatever I wished every day of my life.”
Mariko’s grin widened. “We should create a world for women like us. It would be a thing to see.”
“I intend to do just that,” Yumi said. She loosened her obi from around her waist, then untied her kimono to hang it from a wooden display rack with great care. After she crossed to the back of the room, she removed two sets of nondescript garments from a fragrant tansu chest.
Garments made for a boy.
“Will you join me?” Yumi asked. She let her smile widen slowly until it took on an air of mischief. It was a look Yumi hid from most people. One of unbridled happiness, absent any calculation.
After the initial shock, delight warmed across Mariko’s face. “It would be my honor to join you.”
Her openness endeared Mariko to Yumi even further, for the younger girl did not ask where it was they were going. What it was Yumi wished them to do.
Hattori Mariko trusted Asano Yumi.
Later tonight there would be time for Mariko to share any more information she might have obtained at Heian Castle. For Yumi to agree to pass along Mariko’s revelations to Tsuneoki. For Yumi to continue playing Mariko’s brother for a fool.
But for now?
They would be two girls racing across the rooftops of Inako, with freedom coiling through their hair and their shadows fading into the dusk.
Together.
More Than Love
You won’t believe what she did next.” Mariko leaned forward conspiratorially as she continued working in near darkness. “That same man who yelled at the melon vendor tried to filch Dragon’s Beard candy from a little boy. Yumi was incensed, so she stole a chamber pot and emptied it on his head.” She snickered while tying the last little vial to the loop on the end of the string. “He screamed as though he were being murdered. We had to leap over two nearby rooftops so he wouldn’t catch us. I almost fell, but I haven’t laughed so hard in forever.”
Grinning, Ōkami took hold of the other end of the string, sliding the vial past the iron bars of his cell, over the strip of moonlight, and into his waiting hand.
“If only her brother had been able to see that,” he said.
Mariko met his gaze, her eyes wide. “Would he be mad? Should I not have told you? I was trying to share something lighthearted.”
“No, I asked you to tell me what you did today.” Ōkami’s laughter was quiet and warm. “I just didn’t realize you’d clambered onto the city’s rooftops to terrorize the populace with Asano Yumi.”
Mariko gnawed at her lower lip. “I wouldn’t want to get her in trouble with Tsuneoki. I … really like Yumi.”
“Since I’m currently in chains awaiting execution, her brother likely won’t find out anytime soon. But in the event my circumstances change …” Though his face still appeared bruised and battered, Ōkami’s grin turned sly. “I can’t make any promises about staying silent. If you wish to offer me a bribe, I would not protest.”
“That’s not the least bit amusing.” Mariko cut her gaze. “Only you would jest about dying.”
“I think it’s appropriate, following a story about a man being drenched in someone else’s waste.” The chains by his feet jangled as Ōkami braced his elbows on his knees. “The best jokes end with shit or death.”
At that, Mariko laughed again. The same kind of laughter she’d shared with Yumi earlier that evening. It had been the first time in a long while that she’d allowed herself the luxury. Indeed there had been a moment just yesterday when she’d wondered if she would ever laugh at anything again.
Upon returning to the castle grounds, the first thing she’d wanted to do was tell Ōkami what had happened. To laugh with him about it. Sometimes it frightened Mariko how much he had come to matter to her.
“Is the lock cold yet?” she asked softly, so Ōkami would not detect the emotion in her voice.
Ōkami reached down into the small hole beside his foot. The sound of shifting metal coiled into the night air. He sighed. “Not yet.”
Mariko exhaled with frustration.
It’s taking too long.
The night prior, Mariko had brought a pilfered spoon to Ōkami. She’d instructed him to find a soft space in the earthen floor near his legs. To dig a small but deep hole, large enough to fit the lock securing his chains.
Her idea had been to weaken the metal by exposing it to the kind of cold that never saw the sun. The kind that froze into the earth and never thawed, even during summer. In her chamber, she’d crushed remnants of charcoal she’d collected from beneath the castle. After storing the powder in two empty cosmetic vials, she’d brought them to Ōkami, thinking to pour them into the lock and spark a controlled burst of fire within the mechanism. Hoping it would give way.
“I wish it weren’t so warm outside,” she said. “If the lock doesn’t frost over, it may not work.”
“I would not be disappointed in you if it failed, Mariko.” Ōkami’s voice was thick. “You astound me at every turn.”
Mariko glanced around for a way to change the subject. Her eyes settled on the stream o
f moonlight cascading from the narrow window cut high above. It made her long to be bathed beneath its cool glow, fast asleep in Ōkami’s arms.
“The moon is beautiful, isn’t it?” she said.
“I imagine the moon would be a thing of beauty on a night like this. But I prefer what I’m looking at now.” His eyes remained focused on Mariko as he spoke.
Ōkami had been right when he’d said Mariko eschewed most sentiments. But this was a feeling she could not ignore. A vital feeling, like a hand being burned when held too close to a flame. “You likely say that to all the girls who rescue you,” she mumbled.
He did not smile. “They are a candle in the sunlight compared to you.”
Mariko blinked, embarrassment blossoming beneath her skin.
Ōkami rested his head against the wall and looked up, intensifying the shadows on his face. “Actually you are nothing like sunlight. You’re something else entirely. A well at dusk. That’s where you exist for me. In that place where it’s still and dark and deep.”
A different kind of discomfort washed over her. A mixture of pleasure and pain. She did not find it unsettling, though the sensation was not what she’d imagined it would be. The stories from her childhood had made love seem poetic and grand and tragic all at once, not this odd blending of opposites.
Loss had taught her yet another lesson. Real love was more than a moment. It was everything that happened after. Chaos in one instant, simplicity in the next. Everything and nothing in the space of a simple breath.
It was clarity, sharp and numbing, like a winter’s morning.
When Mariko said nothing, Ōkami laughed. “Don’t let your mind escape you.”
“I—” She cleared her throat, searching for the right words.
“You don’t have to say anything, Mariko. I already know.”
It galled her to realize how well Ōkami had come to know her in such a short period of time. But Mariko would have it no other way. A part of her knew she should tell Ōkami how she felt. To admit it aloud, so that it could never be ignored or denied. But Mariko stayed silent. Mere words felt hugely inadequate. And she wouldn’t have the right words anyway. Not now.
“It’s getting late,” Ōkami said. “You should return to your chamber.”
“I don’t … wish to leave.”
“And I don’t want you to go, but the longer you stay, the more you risk your safety.”
I should tell him I love him. What if I never see him again?
Mariko gritted her teeth. She would not tell him how she felt from a place of fear. Though she’d learned to embrace the it—to make fear serve her instead of control her—Mariko knew better than to let it dictate something so precious.
“I’ll return tomorrow night with some firestones.” Her voice rasped with all she could not say. “If that doesn’t work, I’ll devise another way.” Already her mind began working through possible options.
“Sleep well, Lady Mariko. You are loved. It isn’t enough, but it’s all I have.”
Mariko gathered her things, her brow furrowed, her thoughts a jumble. Wordlessly she counted the paces toward the stairs leading up from the castle’s underbelly. Despite her best efforts, regret had already begun to take root in her chest, as though she’d failed yet again. In all respects.
No. I will not let these fears rule me. I have better things to do with my time.
Ōkami was right. Love was not enough. It wasn’t enough to convince Ōkami to cast aside his doubts and fight. And it wasn’t the reason Mariko had offered to come to Inako. They both needed more than love. More than their heart’s desires. They needed a way to bring about action.
And Mariko did not have that answer. Not yet.
Hattori Mariko slipped soundlessly through the courtyard, her path lit by the light of a sickle moon. As she paused between the painted posts supporting the covered walkways, white pebbles crunched underfoot several paces behind her.
Someone was following her.
Panic caught in her throat. She dropped into a crouch, stealing a moment to collect herself. If this person had not called for the guards or accosted her outright, then he—or she—was trying to obtain information on Mariko’s whereabouts. Perhaps they did not yet know her identity.
But that seemed unlikely.
Mariko knew if she dallied, the intruder would only become more emboldened. It was possible this person did not have much experience tracking or remaining beyond notice. Failing to conceal the sound of movement was a very basic error.
From her crouched position, Mariko tied a mask around the lower portion of her face, then tucked her body into a roll. She reoriented herself behind a row of manicured hedges near a grove of yuzu trees, their sweet citrus scent wafting through the cool night air. She waited once more. Closed her eyes. Let her ears catch any signs of motion.
Nothing.
Mariko scuttled in the shadow of the hedgerow framing the grove. The muscles in her stomach knitted together from the strain of staying low to the ground. When the hedgerow came to an end, she paused once more. Still she could hear nothing in her wake.
Her chest began to relax.
Then the faintest smell of sake curled into her nostrils.
Crunch.
She tore from the bushes toward a ceremonial gatepost bordering a stream. Like a whip through the darkness, Mariko raced into the deepest shadow she could find. Behind her, she heard someone—a man—grunt and stumble, striking the soft earth.
A shout rang out, followed by several more. Lanterns flashed in Mariko’s periphery. Without thought, she slid down the bank of the small stream and tucked into a hollow beneath a small arched bridge.
She waited there, trembling uncontrollably as soldiers apprehended the man trailing her. As their shouts melted into muffled conversation. Words she could not discern from the babbling water.
Mariko waited nearly an hour, until the eastern sky began to lighten along its edges, her eyes wide, her fingers in fists. Then she crawled from her hiding place and back toward her room to vomit in an empty chamber pot.
A Pliant Mind
There were many layers to life. Especially a life like her own.
It was trite to say that not everything was as it seemed. But that fundamental understanding had become a necessary part of life. Time had taught Kanako that even the silliest thought—the most insignificant revelation—often held a deeper meaning.
One that could be used to her advantage, if she was given the opportunity.
She’d learned it first as a child. Rare was it for a poor village to raise a young girl with threads of magic running through her veins. The elders had said it happened once in a generation. Usually magic like this only manifested among the nobility—in those whose bloodlines had remained untainted. Kanako’s magic had not been very strong at first. It had been so slight that her parents had not even thought to send her away to the imperial city to study with a true illusionist. It had begun with an ability to talk to animals and glean their thoughts.
When Kanako had grown older, she’d followed a yellow-eyed fox into the forest on a misty spring morning. Beneath a tree with blackened branches, the fox had revealed to her that it was a demon of the wood. It had told her how serving this demon would make her magic stronger. How it would enable Kanako to do not just one small thing, but many larger, greater things. Perhaps something large enough to catch the attention of those in power. With this stronger magic, maybe she could find her way to the school in Inako after all.
No matter that magic had a price. That great magic had an ever greater price.
The things Kanako had lost to the fox demon had gained her far more. It had been a small price to pay, to know that any pain she endured, she endured for a purpose. Any secrets she kept, she kept with this in mind. After all, her magic was of a finite nature. It would weaken with Kanako the more she used it.
This was the mantra by which she lived: the greater the magic, the greater the price.
Recently she’d
found herself losing time. Her mind would turn blank for the space of several breaths. Thankfully no one around her had noticed. Nor had they noticed how much longer it took for her to heal from any wounds. The injury inflicted upon her by Asano Tsuneoki that night at the Akechi stronghold still pained her greatly.
But it was a trifling consideration. These costs had gained her a place in the imperial castle. The heart of sovereign. The son she held so dear.
And it was for this son that she did everything.
Channeling the shape of her fox demon, Kanako concealed herself behind a thorny rosebush, biding her time. She waited in the shadows of the enchanted maru—the place she’d conjured to conceal the evidence of her darkest deeds. A place she went to for a breath of calm. Her pulse was slow and steady, her breaths carefully metered, her paws anchored to the earth. Her eyes glowed through the darkness as they sought her mark. She knew he would be returning from Hanami soon, for she’d watched and listened for this precise opportunity.
Hattori Kenshin had disappeared to a teahouse in Hanami for the past several nights. As luck would have it, not once had he elected to take an escort or ask for the company of others.
He would be alone.
Kanako had set her sights on him weeks ago, as she’d worked to ensure her son’s ascension to emperor. In this instance, she felt it only fitting; Lord Kenshin was the elder brother of Raiden’s future wife. Of course he would have a reason to assassinate the current ruler. If he did, his sister would be the wife of the next emperor. His family would rise in station.
In the aftermath, this would make sense to those searching for it. The Dragon of Kai had murdered Minamoto Roku for being an obstacle to his sister becoming empress.
And a silly empress she would be. Kanako sneered to herself as she recalled Hattori Mariko and her pitiable attempts to deceive those in power. Kanako had watched for signs of a threat. When she saw the young woman with the doe eyes round the corner that first day, she’d observed nothing but an earnest child with a desperate wish: to be more. It was this earnestness that had caused Kanako to dismiss her outright. The main difference between Lady Mariko and her twin brother was that the latter had a pliant mind. The former possessed one locked tight under her control.