Tsumiko and the Enslaved Fox

by Forthright

  “Proceed.”

  “We’re quite sure that Lady Nona will not speak. To do so would only advertise her defeat. Her silence protects her position.”

  Argent said, “Your silence will be of greater interest to her.”

  “Agreed. She’ll do everything in her power to erase her defeat from memory. Every witness to her attack and the ensuing battle of succession is at risk.” Michael pulled a chair to the bedside and sat. “On the upside, she’ll be as slow to heal as you, and she won’t have the benefit of a beacon in her bed, shining a light onto the road to recovery.”

  “Where is she?”

  “No one knows. Nona’s gone into seclusion.” Michael asked, “Is there anyone she might send after us?”

  “Against me? No. Against you?” Argent choked on a rising growl. “She has a sister. How are the wards?”

  “Multiplying by the day,” Michael said soothingly. “But Sansa would prefer a more proactive means of defense.”

  “In what form?”

  “A healer and her attendants. They’ll come a month early.”

  Witnesses. A good start, but that couldn’t be the full extent of the plan.

  Michael continued, “I’ve had Tsumiko’s solicitor contact Cedric Smythe, requesting an earlier departure and extended stay. He was delighted. Arrangements are nearly complete.”

  “When?”

  “Departure is in three days,” replied Michael. “So focus on mending.”

  Tsumiko said, “We’re staying somewhere else?”

  “You and Argent will be the guests of Lord Percival’s brother Cedric. The trip is an annual tradition, and it’s a convenient excuse to get you and Argent out from underfoot while we have Amaranthine guests at Stately House.”

  Argent gritted his teeth, for he knew what awaited. But this was the simplest expedient to ensure the safety of all members of the household.

  Tsumiko asked, “Couldn’t you simply contact the appropriate authorities and tell them Lady Nona lost to Argent?”

  Michael rubbed at the side of his face. “Unfortunately, she is the proper authority; but yes, I can appeal to the other four clans. They might be able to pressure her into yielding or, at the very least, insist on a rematch. But before that can happen, Argent needs to regain his strength. So a safe haven is our first priority.”

  With a small nod, she quietly asked, “Where are we going?”

  Patting her tight fist, Michael tried for a brighter tone. “Merry old England.”

  TWENTY EIGHT

  Hand-Me-Downs

  Tsumiko was not accustomed to wealth, let alone its trappings. Until the inheritance, she could have fit all her belongings in one suitcase. Nothing about the lifestyle at Saint Midori’s had encouraged accumulation. Any excess was given to those whose needs were greater. Even now, Tsumiko only owned three changes of clothes. Four, if you counted her nightgown.

  “The Uppington Smythes live in high style, so we must prepare you for social events and outings.” Sansa led the way along a quiet hall and opened the door to a room that smelled of cedar. Pulling overhead strings as she walked, three sets of lights winked on, revealing a long room lined with wardrobes, chests, and trunks. “That means at least one new ensemble a day. They dress for dinner, and it would be too shabby for the heiress to show the same ensemble twice.”

  Tsumiko quailed at the prospect of spending a month or more overseas. Thirty-some days would give her thirty-some ways to demonstrate her inability to meet such lofty expectations. “How can I possibly do that?”

  “Lady Eimi always wore traditional attire. You will do the same.” Sansa opened a drawer and folded back tissue, revealing shining silk—deep red with sprays of white chrysanthemums. “Today, you shall choose many beautiful things.”

  Sansa’s smile was nostalgic as she opened doors and drawers, revealing a trove of silken elegance. But Tsumiko’s trepidation multiplied.

  “This is beyond me,” she protested. “I’ve only worn rented yukata … three times.”

  “Rely on Argent. He maintained Mrs. Eimi’s collection, and he will serve as your dresser.” Moving to a box filled with jeweled hair ornaments, she said, “He understands the layers, the knots, and the arranging of hair.”

  Tsumiko tentatively opened a drawer, revealing a rainbow assortment of embroidered wraps. “Why would one person need so many?” she murmured. “There must be hundreds.”

  “Some of these are hundreds of years old. Mrs. Eimi inherited them as you have, from past generations of Hajime women.”

  A museum of past mistresses. “Doesn’t that mean Argent would have bad memories attached to these?”

  “He has never complained.”

  “Would he?” asked Tsumiko.

  Sansa’s head dipped. “No. Give him final say. That is the best you can offer.”

  Tsumiko nodded.

  Pulling forward several kimono racks, Sansa said, “I know which ones Lady Eimi used recently. Avoid those. Once he is able to supervise, Argent can steer you toward the best combinations for layering and accessories.”

  “Yes.” Tsumiko trailed her finger along a pale green sleeve. “I don’t even know where to start.”

  “Do you have a favorite color?”

  “I’m … not fussy?”

  Sansa laughed and brought a coral kimono over, laying it against Tsumiko’s shoulder. “Taste will develop, yes? Especially if a gentleman compliments you for wearing his favorite color.”

  “Is that why you wear green?”

  With a low chuckle, Sansa confessed, “At school, my Dimityblest friend said it was a charm to draw Michael’s eyes to me. Perhaps she was correct, yes?”

  “Was that at a reaver school?”

  “Ingress Academy.”

  Tsumiko asked, “Did you have to learn things like this—etiquette and international customs?”

  “For both countries and clans, but we have our own ways of doing.” Sansa settled a kimono covered in red maple leaves on one of the stands, shaking out its folds. “Reavers are a people without borders, a society from everywhere and nowhere.”

  “What was it like at Ingress Academy?”

  Sansa straightened and eased her back. “Many teachers from many places. Guest lecturers from among the Amaranthine. Many books and records. Much coaching on body language and proper courtesy. As a battler, I learned weapons, fighting styles, strategy.”

  A far cry from Tsumiko’s training at St. Midori’s. Maybe she could visit this academy sometime? “Is that where your children attend?”

  “Yes, yes. Darya is sixteen. She is a ward.”

  “Daddy’s girl?”

  “Very much, yes. Our son Timur is like me, my brothers, and my mother before me. We are built strong.”

  “A battler?”

  “Through and through,” Sansa said proudly. “Then there is Isla, who is made for peace. Even though she is only eight, she is favored by the diplomacy division. And little Annika shines brightest. That is why they took her so early. And why we were encouraged to add to our family.”

  “You and Michael are a good match,” Tsumiko said shyly.

  The woman smoothed a hand over her belly. “Reaver parents hope for children with strong hearts and bright souls. Perhaps this time, we will bear a beacon.”

  “Michael said your baby will come while we’re gone.”

  “Yes. This is good. Childbirth upsets Argent.”

  “Doesn’t he like babies?” Tsumiko asked.

  Sansa knelt before a trunk filled with shoe boxes. “He tried to explain once. The build and break of two souls in one body, the dividing of spirits. Amaranthine are sensitive to things we cannot see.” With a sly tone, she added, “He is too gentle. My pain is his distress.”

  “What about Gingko?”

  “A doting uncle. A great help.” Sansa
laughed. “Our gardener makes a fine nanny.”

  “Because foxes like to nestle.”

  Sansa nodded. “And because children are their treasure. Amaranthine no longer multiply as humans do, so they cherish each new life as rare and precious.”

  Tsumiko let that idea swirl through her thoughts for a while before asking, “Doesn’t that make Gingko special to Argent?”

  “Truly.”

  “Then why would Gingko think he’s hated?”

  Turning to her with an equally attentive gaze, Sansa asked, “Do you think Argent hates you?”

  “That’s what he says.”

  Sansa waved that aside. “Words are not the place to look for truth when it comes to foxes.”

  Mystified, Tsumiko asked, “Where should I be looking?”

  “There is a reason foxes hide their tails.”

  TWENTY NINE

  Clan Crests

  Before returning to Argent’s side, Sansa insisted that Tsumiko take a little time for herself—to stretch, to bathe, to eat. Hair still damp from washing, she submitted to Sansa’s brisk mothering, accepting a steaming bowl of soup while the woman rummaged through her store of restorative teas.

  Gingko shuffled into the kitchen with a book under his arm. “Dad kicked me out. Michael’s cleaning him up.”

  “His timing is good.” Sansa filled an earthen teapot with boiling water and two heaping spoonfuls of a concoction of dried leaves and twigs. Adding a squat metal tin and a green glass bottle to the tea tray, she excused herself. “I will allow him one last dose of the Huddlebud.”

  Serving himself from the pot simmering on the back burner, Gingko retreated to the far end of the room, where a sofa tucked into the bow of a bay window. Sprawled across worn cushions with mug in hand, he flipped though pages.

  Tsumiko finished her meal and rinsed her bowl before interrupting his quietude. “Are these plants yours?”

  Gingko swung his feet to the floor and patted the spot beside him. “Welcome to my winter garden.” He set his empty cup on the floor and waved to the jungle of hanging baskets overhead. “Since Dad doesn’t let anyone inside the big conservatory, I claimed this space.”

  “Why wouldn’t he let you in?” she asked. “Aren’t you Stately House’s gardener?”

  “It’s his spot, I guess.” Gingko kept his eyes fixed on the book across his lap. “Eimi used to make him let her inside, but I don’t think he liked that. But she wasn’t immune to his tricks. People tend to forget the conservatory’s there unless they happen to see it from outside.”

  “Does he grow things inside?”

  “Probably. I know Sansa requests some of the stuff she puts in her teas.” Gingko drummed his fingers on the edge of the book. “I have a feeling it’s full of things he loves. That’s why I’ve never been inside.”

  Tsumiko peered up through sunlit greenery. “I can understand wanting a haven, and I can understand wanting to be welcomed there.”

  He leaned into her. “You’re always welcome in my garden.”

  “Thank you.” Her attention tugged toward his book, which must have been from Michael’s collection. The paper had the luster of Dimityblest workmanship, but instead of writing, the page was covered in neat rows of drawings. “What are you reading?”

  Gingko sighed. “This book’s full of obscure clan crests and family emblems. Reavers keep records of stuff like this.”

  “How beautiful!” Tsumiko touched a six-sided emblem with a cherry blossom at its center. “Is your clan in here?”

  “Not this one, but I found the Mettlebright crest in the last book. Like I said, these are more obscure—branch families, enclaves, and cooperatives. But there’s a dozen pages of foxes. See?”

  He flipped to a section near the back under the vulpine heading. One of the insignias showed a leaping fox, and another was a wreath of nine white-tipped tails. Tsumiko found more foxy references among the crests, but most families chose natural elements—leaves, buds, flowers, berries, and mushrooms. She picked out constellations, paper lanterns, and even a few with insects. One showed an especially detailed moth, and she remarked, “This doesn’t seem very foxlike.”

  “That’s probably a cooperative. From what I’ve read, Amaranthine with complementary specialties will share an enclave. Like potters in the monkey clans teaming up with the salamanders who fire their kilns.”

  “So the different Amaranthine clans get along?”

  “Well, yeah. They don’t fight each other because they’re all Amaranthine.”

  “That’s hard to imagine.”

  Gingko smirked. “It’s not all peaceful, or the reavers wouldn’t exist. Amaranthine don’t prey on each other, but humans are fair game. Or used to be.”

  “They want peace now.”

  “Seems so,” he said, flipping to the section he’d been studying earlier.

  “So what are you looking for?” Tsumiko asked.

  “The crest for the wolf pack that took me in.” Gingko glanced at the door and lowered his voice. “I don’t ask questions I’m not willing to answer, so I don’t know what family they belong to. But last time I was there, they held this festival thing, so my friend and his kin were wearing the family crest. Only I can’t find it among the branch families.”

  “What did it look like?”

  “A full moon with a flowering twig bending across it.” Gingko drew a curve in the air. “Just that one crest. Nothing else.”

  They paged through the section together, and although nearly every pack had some reference to the moon in their insignia, none of them were a match for Gingko’s memory.

  “Could they be new?” Tsumiko asked.

  “How would I know?” grumbled Gingko. “It didn’t seem that way, but maybe I’m missing something.”

  “What’s missing?” Michael strolled into the kitchen, offering a weary salute.

  Gingko let the book fall shut. “How’s Dad?”

  “Asleep again.” Michael ladled soup into a bowl and chose an orange from the tray on the counter. Sliding into his usual seat at the kitchen table, he asked, “Didn’t you find what you were looking for in that one?”

  “Not really. But it’s interesting reading.” Gingko asked, “How current is this book? Would other clans have added branch families since this was updated?”

  “Isla brought that one home with her last summer.” His lips quirked. “She’d already memorized all the crests, so she lent it to me. I assume that means it’s an accurate registry of active branch families, enclaves, and guilds. Worldwide.”

  Gingko’s brow furrowed.

  Tsumiko asked, “Do reavers use this kind of heraldry?”

  “No. The crests are unique to Amaranthine culture.” Michael slipped effortlessly into teaching mode. “While not necessarily worn on everyday garments, all formal attire will have up to five crests on display. They serve as identifiers of clan, house, family, guild, enclave, and more recently, their role within the human alliance.”

  “So … Gingko would have one for being a Mettlebright fox, one for being Argent’s son, and one for being Stately House’s gardener?”

  Michael waved his spoon at them. “That’s the idea! Which means that even when an Amaranthine is in human form, you can tell at a glance who you’re dealing with. From a human perspective, this has been interpreted as transparency. In the interest of peace, the inhuman races have nothing to hide.”

  Gingko snorted. “An impression the reavers have encouraged.”

  “Naturally. Since it’s not so far from the truth.”

  “Which is?” prompted Tsumiko.

  “In Amaranthine societies, it’s considered polite—even flattering—to ask individuals the significance of their crests. To show an interest in someone’s history is the first step in becoming part of their future.”

  With a sidelong glance at
Gingko, Tsumiko asked, “What if someone only has one crest?”

  Michael peered thoughtfully into his soup bowl. “That does happen, although it’s comparatively rare.”

  “Why?”

  “Ah. Well.” Michael sat back in his chair and began teasing the peel off his orange. “Consider it this way. One of the reasons for additional crests is differentiation between family members. For instance, let’s say a fox had three sons. They would share a clan marker, like Argent’s Mettlebright affiliation. And at least initially, all three would share their father’s name and accompanying crest. The eldest would carry forward that house symbol, but the younger sons would register their own crests when reaching their attainment.”

  “The younger sons become branch families,” said Tsumiko.

  “Yes.”

  Gingko swore under his breath, which meant he’d caught on as well. But Tsumiko preferred to confirm her suspicions. “So someone with only one crest wouldn’t be from any of the branch families.”

  “No, indeed.” Michael popped an orange segment into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “For each distinct clan, only a handful of Amaranthine would bear a single crest—its spokesperson, their heir, and any additional children still too young to establish their own house.”

  “Then hypothetically speaking, the only cats with a single crest would be … Hisoka Twineshaft, his heir, and his other little ones.”

  “Oh, it’s just him,” Michael said with a laugh. “Hisoka-sensei is a confirmed bachelor. And responsibility for the feline clans traditionally passes from mother to daughter. But overall, that’s the correct pattern for a single-crest designation across all clans—horse, moth, panther, tanuki, phoenix, and so on.”

  “And wolf,” Tsumiko whispered.

  Gingko swore again.

  THIRTY

  Underestimation

  Argent shifted his hand and found Tsumiko’s hip, then used it to pull her more firmly into his body. He noted hazily that her sleeping clothes were different than when he last woke. The silk blend was an improvement. Sansa must have shown her the stores. Of course. They had been packing.