Author's Note: Before you read this chapter, I strongly recommend you backtrack and re-read Chapter Two again. At least the Saito-Chou interactions. This chapter does refer indirectly to a lot of things Chou did and said. I've remodelled the first chapter a bit, too.
Thank you to omasuoniwabanshi, for the beautifully constructive review which cheered me up considerably after writing this chapter, and alexnyukiluvr, here's the update.
no one really, I don't write for reviews so a total of thirteen reviews doesn't bug me so much. I love to hear from people if they liked my stuff, or what they didn't like about it, and even if every single person who reads this, doesn't review, it's okay— I really appreciate those who do. And thanks very much for the vote of confidence; I'd just finished writing this chapter when I logged on and found your review.
And I'm really sorry to everyone that this chapter is not as good as I could write it. I'm redoubling my efforts with the later ones for compensation, but for now I think I'll go off and read "Summer's End" over and over again to cheer myself up about my writing. :hitches back theatrical sniffle:
Chapter Seven
The falling night was getting cold, and a strange sort of silence slowly descended. Where the air had once been ripped with loud cries, voices and human blood, the ground was littered now with maimed men, free and convicted.
The hansom lay on its side; the carcass of its horse slowly pressed the breath out of the man's chest, the policeman trapped beneath it.
Chou Sawagejo wiped the blade of his sword in one clean, long, theatrical sweep and sheathed it with the slide of metal and scabbard. He made an imposing figure in the twilight: the mixed light falling on him, slanting through the leaves and branches he stood under, both eyes terrifyingly open, his skin stained to the colour of crimson.
"Mr. Ch—"
"What?" he drawled.
The man banked short of him, unused to being spoken to like that. He was short, flabby, and in an expensive well-cut, pinstripe suit with a waistcoat and fob-watch on a gold chain. If Saito were to see him, he would probably be recognised as the drug-trafficker against whom Reiji Hoshou had held his blade the night a man wounded Saito.
And his name was Takamura, very docile a christening as compared to his deeds.
He wasn't supposed to be on his feet, walking free, but chained, after lounging in prison, being led to trial by an armed guard.
But then again, Chou was not one to sit back and let his debtors evade his grasp.
"What do you want?" he repeated, when Takamura continued his silence.
The man coughed, and cleared his throat, gesturing to the slaughter of policemen and horses. "What if Saito Hajime should find out about this?" There was little dubiousness to that, and Takamura's skin was ivory in the wan light. "I am, as you can damn well see, not in a position to oppose him right now. I need my men with me."
Chou looked at him, his eyes sweeping over the man, who shuddered inside under the intensity of the appraisal. Chou grinned.
"You know, Mr. Takamura, for a man as rich as you, you're pretty stupid if you get cold feet about Saito now. You already got him riled up when you tossed him the bloody threat in his backyard the last time, and now, you've nearly cost him his badge ... You signed your name to this, Mr. Takamura, and you'll be lucky if a man who's got eyes like Saito doesn't see it."
Takamura flushed, and colour, rich and angry flooded his face. Chou Sawagejo was not the type of acquaintance he like to keep for very long, and in the same diffused light that made Chou times more fearsome, Takamura gave an ugly smirk.
"What about you?" he spat almost, his lip curling, uneasiness gone. You were supposed to be on Saito's side."
Chou smiled serenely, both eyes shooting fire. "We'll see, won't we? How you can survive with my protection?"
Tokio moved away to stand under the shade of a tree, the damp chilly air biting at her skin where it was bare. The kimono she wore wasn't nearly warm enough without the shawl, and she clamped her fists inside the sleeves to hold to some semblance of warmth.
She still thought it hard to believe that she was here. But it scarcely mattered now. Saito hardly cared, still angry, expressing it in his cold, black way, venting it in curt, biting observations and remarks that made his colleagues and the junior officers cringe. She'd thought things were starting to get better, that the heavy, looming shadow of anger and inculcated animosity was dissipating, leaving the perch on his shoulder.
But the bureaucrats were still wary of Saito, afraid of him. She was just his housekeeper; she didn't know, and she didn't ask, if they knew what she also knew about Goro Fujita.
Either way, they still had Saito's shoes above the ground, their limbo, where he was still without his badge and suspended from office.
That the mayor would still want him to come to his gatherings, it probably had to do with the gentleman's wife, the dark, elegant lady who'd drawn Saito away minutes ago, him putting up a great armour of reluctance and hostility to the idea, casting glances over his shoulder in a show of concern that surprised her.
But biting her cheek, Tokio had smiled, and invited him to go with her, standing in the neatly-kempt garden, wearing the rich, luxurious kimono he'd bought her out of his salary, and not hers. After all, she reflected sadly, the mayor's wife was the class of people a samurai of his standing rubs shoulders with.
Not the housekeeper.
She laughed, but caught it in her sleeve.
Despite the falling mercury, there were still people outside, around the tables, simply standing, alone, watching the sky, engaged in conversation with friends or the woman at their side. Respectable, high-standing men, all of them. And yet, it was funny how so few of them were married.
Saito had been gone for an awfully long while. She wasn't even sure if they'd gone into the house, or if he'd suddenly left.
That seemed unlikely, though. The carriage was still outside the grounds, in plain view amid the others. A horse-drawn carriage... The thought made Tokio warm inside. Before she'd come to Kyoto, she'd never ridden in one before. Maybe on the driver's box with a friend who drove one, but only royalty rode one.
A smooth, cool voice said beside her ear, "I believe you are with Mr. Fujita."
Tokio started violently. She spun around, the salutation awfully familiar.
Behind her, was a gentleman in a pinstriped business suit, hat tilted at a roguish angle, obviously having arrived just now. He was smiling, but it didn't reach his eyes. He obviously was not Reiji Hoshou, and something about him made Tokio delicately move away. She doubted he understood trust, except when he was manipulating it to his advantage.
He was looking at her, and he repeated what he said.
She didn't reply. She didn't know how to.
"You would be Miss Takagi, then?"
"Yes,"
"You live with Mr. Fujita, don't you?"
The blood was creeping up her face, and suddenly, she felt glad for the shadows the branches threw across her face; she knew very well where this was going.
"Mr. Fujita has been kind enough to share his roof and spare rooms with me."
The stranger nodded thoughtfully. "Yes; he does have an extraordinarily large house for a single man ...You wouldn't, I hope, mind enlightening me about the circumstances of that, would you? Mr. Fujita, as I recall him, likes his privacy a lot too."
She couldn't breathe for a passing moment; something hard had lodged itself in her throat. "I ... I work for him."
"I see," And the stranger smiled again. There was nothing friendly, or even frigidly polite about it. It was cruel, mocking, and his eyes slid down the bridge of his nose as he looked her, his chin tilted up at a haughty angle. "Yes, I do recall hearsay about Mr. Fujita having found himself a new housekeeper."
Tokio felt her fingers clenching inwards inside her sleeves.
He went on, "You are here to accompany Mr. Fujita, I presume?"
The words spilled out of her cottony throat. "I'm here on his invitation." She held his gaze for a hard moment, trembling inside, and excusing herself curtly, she pulled away from his presence, and walked away. The kimono swished around her ankles; she felt the stranger's cold, laughing eyes following her back, burning through her with their derisiveness.
There was only surprise in Saito's eyes, as he stood there on the porch of the mayor's house, about to light a cigarette when he saw Tokio, her face white, lips pressed together.
He didn't ask any questions. He simply said, "Do you want to go back?"
She didn't know how to reply. She wanted to run home to where her mother and sister were, not wanting a part of this anymore. But there would always be Mr. Hajime; if she left, so would he.
Out of consideration for others' opinion, if not her feelings.
"It's all right," he said quietly. "I don't mind leaving."
She couldn't see his eyes, shadowed by the dim light, only his mouth, expressionless, the burning cigarette held between two fingers, the other hand on her shoulder.
"Thank you," she whispered at last, hating how her voice came out, loving him for understanding.
Neither of them said a word as they sat in the carriage, the sound of the horses clopping on the gravelled road the only sound above their breathing. Saito stayed with her all night, the two of them sitting in the drawing room, their voices soft and hearts pounding. He seemed sorry to see her leave, even if it had only been to make supper.
