by Zoe Marriott
“I — maybe,” I said, shaking my head to rid it of the images of new songs, new instruments. “Maybe I will have time after. I cannot think about it now.”
“Of course.” The animation left Akira’s face. She snapped her fan closed. “After.”
The performance at the cherry blossom viewing had served its purpose. Akira was deluged with invitations, some for me to play and others simply begging us to attend various gatherings.
As I played and sang for people more and more often, I began to understand just how much pleasure it brought them to share my music with me. After a few more public appearances, my nerves completely disappeared; with my shamisen in my hands, I was as comfortable surrounded by a hundred people as alone on Akira’s veranda. At such gatherings, I felt that I had a purpose and was valued.
The invitations to tea ceremonies, parties, or dinners where there was no music seemed strange to me, though. Obedient to Akira’s rules, I spoke very little, never laughed, rarely smiled, and for the most part ignored people unless they spoke directly to me. I thought I must be the most intensely dull guest that most of them had ever entertained, but Akira assured me that everyone found me charming. Weeks passed, and the invitations continued to arrive. My hosts grew steadily richer, and their parties bigger, and I knew that Akira’s plan was working; I was becoming famous. The more famous I became, the closer I drew to my ultimate goal, the Kage no Iwai.
“Are they truly satisfied simply to stare at my face?” I asked. “I cannot comprehend it. Perhaps I would feel better about it if it were really my face, and not a mask, but still —”
“Here, eat,” Akira interrupted, passing me a full rice bowl.
“Itadakimasu,” I said absently.
“No, they are not merely captivated by the way you look, although your weavings now are so skillful that it would not be surprising if they were. It is the mystery of Kano Yue that intrigues and enchants them. You reveal nothing; they imagine everything. Real love is hard because it requires one to know and accept another person with all their faults. This kind of infatuation is easy because, as far as they are concerned, Kano Yue has no faults. They love everything about you because they know nothing about you.”
I sighed, catching a piece of stewed pork belly in my chopsticks and popping it into my mouth.
“You already know all this,” Akira said, chasing a slice of boiled egg. “Why so cross? It is working, which is what you wanted. You are well on your path to receiving an invitation to the Shadow Ball.”
I nodded and slurped some soup.
“Yue?”
“I hate that name,” I whispered.
“What?” Akira dropped her chopsticks. “Why did you not tell me before? We could have picked another —”
“No, no,” I said. “It is not that the name is bad. I just —” I broke off, stirring my food around. Then I finished, “It is harder than I expected.”
“What is, Pipit?”
She, too, had picked up Otieno’s pet name for me. Hearing it again made my voice wobble as I said, “Everything.”
There was a pause. “This is about Otieno?”
I gave up on my kukuni stew and looked at Akira. “He goes home soon. One week.”
Akira’s expression was unexpectedly stern. “Would you have him stay, then?”
I shook my head violently. “No. He has been in the Moonlit Land for two years, and although he does not admit it, it has been hard for him. He does not belong here. He is not happy here. He must go home.”
“Besides which,” she said deliberately, “in two weeks he will have no reason to stay. You will belong to someone else.”
The next day Otieno did not come to see me at the normal time.
Over the last few weeks, Akira had relaxed her rules on my music practice a lot. I played and sang every day but some days only for half an hour before Otieno arrived. Provided I put in my full dance practice later on, Akira did not scold me. Dancing for an hour was an inflexible rule; just as I was determined to attend the Shadow Ball, Akira was determined that I should not shame her with my dancing.
Otieno always came somewhere in the middle of my playing. Sometimes he simply sat on the veranda and listened, sometimes we talked. Other times he would whisk me — and occasionally Akira, too — out on some planned trip to the market or park or another special place that he had heard of. There were even times, more often lately, when Otieno stayed with us for the whole day, blending seamlessly into our normal activities, drinking tea with us, lying lazily on his side on the tatami mat, watching Akira arrange flowers, or laughing at me when I tried to imitate one of her fan tricks and hit myself on the head.
Yet today, he did not come.
I spun my shamisen practice out, digging the recesses of my memory for half-heard tunes to reconstruct and then resorting to simple children’s songs. Eventually Akira came to collect me and force me inside. We drank tea, and then our day continued just as it normally would have. As if that gap in routine had never happened. Except that it had. I felt the gap inside me; it was a void, an aching emptiness. Where is he?
Melodramatic. Foolish. Childish. If his absence for a single day felt like a wound, how would I manage when he was gone forever?
“You must get used to this,” I muttered.
“Did you say something?” Akira asked, looking up from her letter. Her eyes widened. “You are pale. Are you ill? Moon in the sky, you are attending Lord Yorimoto’s party in two days! He is the Moon Prince’s principal adviser; he is the one who will get your invitation for you.”
“I am not sick. I was just thinking about something.”
She tapped her fingernails against her brush and finally said, “Tomorrow. He will be back tomorrow.”
I refused to look at her. After a moment I heard her sleeves swishing and the movement of the brush again, and relaxed. I went back to listening intently for the sound of carriage wheels approaching.
That night I had a dream. I was fourteen, a child again, standing under the cherry blossoms in my father’s orchard, hearing the screams. I dreamed of the fear clogging my throat as my father fell. Aimi was pulling at me, dragging me away, and as I turned to run, I saw Otieno.
He was lying in the grass. One of his own black-and-white-fletched arrows was buried in his back.
I woke miserable, shivering and sick. I felt more sick when I had to look at the miso soup, rice, and vegetables that were served for breakfast.
“I am not hungry,” I mumbled, getting up and going to sit on the veranda.
Otieno was not thoughtless. He knew we expected him to visit. If he had not been able, or had not wanted, to come, he would have sent a message. Yet there had been no message. Something was wrong.
So many things could happen to people. I had seen most of them firsthand. So many ways to die. Arrows. Swords. Poisoning . . .
If he did not come today, what should I do? I had no idea where he was staying. He had never taken me to his home. Who would know where his family could be found?
I began to make bargains in my head. I would not mind if he had simply grown tired of us — of me — and did not want to see us anymore. If, now that his time to leave was drawing near, he had decided to distance himself, I would accept that. If all we got was a little, polite note that said good-bye, that would be good enough.
So long as he was all right.
That was all.
That was all I needed to know.
I did not take my shamisen out. I did not see the lake or the sky or the mountains, though I stared at them until my eyes watered. I just sat there, and waited. Making promises to the Moon, or fate, or anyone else who would listen.
It took me a moment to hear the impatient footsteps in the house behind me. I turned as the screen door flew back. There was Otieno, framed in the entrance. Breathing. Alive.
Bandaged.
I took in the raw-looking grazes on the right side of his face, his purpling and swollen eye, and the clean white wrappings that c
overed his right hand. He was hurt. But he was alive. I stared, torn between joy and horror, unable even to move. I felt the tears well up in my eyes. They burned as they spilled down my frozen cheeks.
Otieno’s expression went from smiling to shock. In an instant, he was on his knees beside me, gathering me against him. I clutched at his solid arms and breathed in his comforting cassia smell.
“Yue. Do not — do not cry.” The soothing murmur rumbled through his chest where it pressed against me.
But I could not stop crying. Sobs ripped from my body and left me weak and shuddering in their wake.
“What happened?” I asked. The words were so thick and muffled by tears that even I could barely understand them. “What happened to you?”
“I had an accident on the way here yesterday. My carriage overturned. I was unconscious. Even when I woke up, I am afraid I was knocked a little silly and did not remember that I had missed my visit here until it was too late to send a message. I did not want to wake your household just to apologize, so I came here as soon as it was polite.”
“Wake the household? Do you think I care for that? Do you know all the terrible things I was imagining? Seeing, in my head? I thought you were dead!”
Otieno ignored my weak struggles until I gave up and laid my head against his chest, letting him support my weight. I sniffed soggily. My nose was blocked, and I knew that by now my face was swollen to twice its normal size and blotched red.
“Would you please explain what this is about? Why would you think I was dead? Did you have a vision that harm had come to me?” Otieno asked hesitantly.
“No — I — no, I do not think so. I felt something was wrong.”
“Is that why you panicked?”
“No!” I said, jerking against him. He winced, and I felt remorseful. I rubbed gently at his side. “You do not understand.”
“Yes, but I have already admitted that,” he said, his tone a mixture of irritation and amusement. “I cannot read your mind, though, believe me, there are times when I would trade all I own for that ability. You must tell me. Tell me why I found you sitting here this morning as if you had already bade me good-bye.”
I drew back from him and rubbed my fingers over my stinging, puffy eyelids. “Otieno, you have never seen anyone killed, have you?”
I could hear the frown in his voice when he said, “I saw my grandmother, after she died.”
I drew in a slow, jerky breath. It hitched in my chest, but I fought the tears down. “That is not the same thing. Not at all. I have seen people killed. They were gone in a moment, an instant. I could not even try to save them.”
I pulled my hands away from my eyes and looked at him. “You think you are immortal. Everyone does. Only those of us who have seen — have really seen — how easy death is, can understand. Life is the improbable thing. It is so fragile that it can be taken away at any second, without reason or logic or warning. My fears may seem foolish to you, but I know how easily you could be taken from me. I know how it would feel.”
Otieno took my hands, leaning forward until our foreheads touched. “Pipit. It is time. You must tell me now. Tell me everything.”
I swallowed, wanting to deny it. Only how could I, now? I had made it his business.
“Soldiers came to the house and accused Father of treachery. They cut off his head and brought my cousin down with an arrow. She died trying to save me.”
I tilted my head to look at Otieno and told him the rest in as few words as possible, right up until the time when I ran away from the kitchen. As with Akira, I did not mention my mother’s poisoning. When I was finished, I felt exhausted.
“You wanted to know what happened, and I have told you. Now you must give me something in return.”
He nodded. “Very well. What would you like?”
“Promise me you will never leave me like that again. Arrange with your father so that no matter what happens, I will know you are all right.”
“We are leaving in less than a week. It will hardly be necessary after that.”
I flinched at the reminder, everything inside me cringing back. I plowed on, determined not to let him see. “Until then. Please. I cannot live through such a day, or such a night again.”
He smiled, and before I could stop him he kissed me, a sweet, soft kiss that made me sigh.
“I promise,” he whispered, “that you will never have such a day or night again. I will make sure of it.”
“There is something we must speak about before we attend Lord Yorimoto’s entertainment tonight,” Akira said.
I turned away from my comparison of a silver and mother-of-pearl kanzashi pin with a tortoiseshell and coral one, and looked at her. She was pale and very serious.
“What is it? Are you well?”
“Do not worry about me,” she said. “I have told you that Lord Yorimoto is the key to gaining your invitation, but I also said that all you need to do is be your usual charming self and the invitation would be yours. That may no longer be true.”
“Why?” I asked, although I was not sure I wanted the answer. It was no minor problem that put such a look on her face.
“I have just received word that Lady Yorimoto is ill. She will not be presiding over the party tonight. She will not even be in the house, in fact. She is staying with her daughter.”
I frowned. “Does that make such a difference?”
“I am afraid so.” She drew in a deep breath, as if bracing herself. “Lord Yorimoto is a handsome, charming, and intelligent man. That is why he is a valued adviser to the prince and why you need his help if you want to attend the Shadow Ball. He is also a notorious seducer of young women — though seducer is not precisely the right word, as I have it on good authority that many of his victims are less than willing. His wife is a formidable woman and a friend of the old princess; having her there tonight might have made your role a little more difficult, since she does not like me and would not have approved of you. However, her presence would have kept Yorimoto in check. With her safely out of the way, he may feel free to act in ways that you will not like.”
I swallowed and looked down at my hands, clasped neatly and calmly in my lap. “We will be in public, though, and you will be with me.”
“You cannot rely on either of those things to keep you safe. He could arrange to have us separated in any of a dozen ways, and getting you alone would be child’s play for him. The higher people rise in court, the more they excel at such games. Besides . . .” She hesitated.
“What? Tell me. I need to know.”
She made a gesture of frustration. “If Yorimoto is pleased, he can arrange to have that invitation in your hand by this time tomorrow. With his wife at the party, it would have been easy to please him: a little flirting, a smile, a touch of a hand. But without any restraint placed on him, he will expect more. If you offend him, he may withhold the invitation out of spite, and with both him and his wife as your enemies it will be much, much harder to gain an invitation through someone else. Not impossible. You are Kano Yue. Someone will probably help you.”
“Probably,” I said, my voice hollow. “The ball is in a week and three days. Have we any invitations from other advisers to the prince before then?”
“No.”
I let out a long, slow breath. “So the question becomes: just how much is the invitation worth to me?”
I had steeled myself to the duties of the Shadow Bride. I could and would go through with it in order to get the promise. Now I had to decide if, in order to get to the ball in the first place, I could allow another stranger to lay his hands on me, simply because he was despicable enough to be my enemy if I refused.
Akira looked away. “You are not the daughter of a nobleman. You are the sister of a notorious courtesan, of murky past. He will not expect you to be a virgin. He may feel that, even if you are to attend the Shadow Ball, there is no harm in sampling the goods. Or he may not go that far, but he could still expect you to show him ‘favor,’ shall we sa
y. Yue, I know that you and Otieno have grown close these past few weeks. Have you —?”
“No,” I said.
Akira rubbed her forefinger in a gentle circle on her smooth forehead, a sure sign that a headache was building. “I am not sure if that makes it better or worse.”
In the midst of my own dismay, I felt a flash of compassion for Akira. This was hard for her. Perhaps it brought back memories of her own past, of being sold to the theater. They had expected her to take on the role of a grown woman not just on the stage but in the pleasure rooms behind it, when physically and mentally she was still a child. At least I had a choice. She had never had one.
Without thinking, I shuffled forward and laid my hand on her knee. It rested there a moment before it began to heat and tingle, bringing to me the awareness of the uncomfortable pressure behind her left eye and the thudding in her skull. This much of her distress I could alleviate, at least. I let the heat spread from my skin to hers, soothing the pain away.
Her tense shoulders relaxed, and her hand fell away from her head. I pulled back, closing my eyes against the wave of dizziness that came when I moved. It passed almost straightaway. I was getting better. Stronger.
And less and less able to resist the temptation to use this new gift.
I pushed that thought away and opened my eyes to see that the delicate color had returned to Akira’s cheeks.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling. “I do not know what I ever did without you.”
“If it were not for me, you would not have had the headache in the first place,” I pointed out.
“Nonsense. Now listen to me, Pipit. We do not have to attend tonight. I can send a note to Yorimoto claiming a sudden indisposition, and then we will just have to work harder and try to get an invitation some other way. You need not do anything you do not wish to do.”
I shook my head decisively. “There is no time. I will just have to do my best to stay with you, and charm him while keeping him at a distance.”
“And if that does not work?” she asked, eyes huge. I wondered again at the memories that caused her face to fill with such emotion, and took her hand.