Chapter 3: Mornings With Misao
Misao stepped off the carriage with a drowsy sensation; all the signs of travel wear evident in her appearances: disheveled hair, half-closed eyes, an unsteady gait and uncommon silence coming from the normally sprightly young onmitsu. Her loose French braid was mussed up, letting stray strands of hair fall to outline her small face. Ambling over to stand by Aoshi's side at the doorstep, the two waited for a servant to greet them in weary silence. On closer inspection, Aoshi found that the imprint of Misao's lace sleeve was visibly pink on her left cheek. His eyes twinkled as he ungloved his hand and brought it to Misao's face, tracing the fine lines of the lace's marks on her cheek: she must have fallen asleep on her arm on the way to the mansion. Misao had started slightly at his unexpected touch, locking gazes with him. She resembled a frightened deer standing motionless in shock in front of an upcoming carriage, yet she did not break his gaze. Only when the sound of footsteps became audible to both outsiders did Aoshi let his hand fall to his side.
The mansion was lofty and majestic, its Victorian proportions and exquisite design nearly taking Misao's breath away. Her previous sleepiness forgotten, Misao stared at everything in as covert a manner she could possess, eager to satiate her curiosity. Aoshi was the vision of domestic lordliness, his sharp black suit and gleaming leather shoes blending into the rich burgundy wood floor and autumn-tinted Persian carpets with matched elegance. Antique jade-glazed vases and wondrous paintings decorated the house, making it at once daunting yet mesmerizing. Misao did the best she could to keep up with Aoshi and the butler's long strides, bustling in the most refined manner her confining skirts and pinching shoes allowed her legs to move. "Really, Hanabusa-sama, it has been quite a while since you have returned to this house. I assume that your parents are faring well. Is this lovely lady your newly wedded wife?" The butler turned to Aoshi with a kindly expression, an easy polite smile lightening his features. Aoshi nodded silently, as Misao inhaled sharply—this would not do: having a servant who knew the Hanabusas personally could possibly betray their mission. The old man directed the couple towards the stairs, attempting to step up on the first stair but tripping over it in the process, giving Aoshi a grateful smile when the young man caught him deftly before he could hit the ground, "Domo arigatou, Hanabusa-sama. Unfortunately, my eyesight has worsened over the years; I can barely tell the stair steps apart from each other. Pardon an old man's age—I will leave you for the night." Misao let out a barely audible sigh of relief as she and Aoshi bowed respectfully to the elderly man, murmuring their thanks as they proceeded up the stairs to their shared room in silence.
They stood before the closed door for a moment before Aoshi reached out and turned the doorknob. Misao automatically brought a hand up to her mouth as she breathed out in admiration—it was a beautiful room. Heavy beige-colored curtains locked out the moonlight, and a magnificently carved glass gas lamp sat dead center on a lovely ebony table. An extensive dresser and vanity table with an immense mirror atop of it was situated against the wall to their right, a large closet placed by what seemed to be the bathroom door. A tall king-sized bed complete with lofty blankets and drapery stood at the wall that faced the tired couple. Misao turned to Aoshi with a tired smile as she headed towards the bathroom to get ready for bed, "I get the right side."
Aoshi let out a muffled groan—his legs were positioned in a most uncomfortable position. Moving his legs across the bed, Aoshi felt his knee brush against something soft and immobile. Opening his eyes slightly, he saw Misao's braided head to his right, identifying with some unease that his leg was resting against her thigh. Removing his knee carefully, Aoshi's half-conscious gaze flickered over to the Western clock in their shared bedroom: seven o'clock. Aoshi knew it was due time for him to arise, but he was reluctant for the first time in months to leave his bed. He was grateful for the extra warmth coming from the extra person in his bed, which was deliciously appealing to him as he observed the chill of the room's air. Shivering slightly, Aoshi delved deeper into the covers as he looked momentarily at Misao's side and found two clear sapphire eyes gazing back at him in the cold of the morning.
Misao was the first to break the morning quiet: "Ohayou, Aoshi-sama." Her soft voice filled Aoshi with sunlit warmth as he stared back at the lovely woman who had shared his bed last night.
Aoshi sat up resolutely; it would not do for him to stay in bed staring into Misao's eyes—he would lose track of time indefinitely. "You should start accustoming yourself to calling me Ayo, Misao." Misao nodded, a slender hand covering a large yawn as she blinked back sleepy tears. Aoshi did likewise as he responded, "And I in turn… will start calling you Meiko."
"Alright, anata." Raising an eyebrow, Aoshi wanted to know what elicited such a response from Misao, who grinned roguishly at him, "Well, we have to be convincing, ne? We can't even risk having servants suspicious of our situation."
Aoshi knelt closer until his face was a mere distance from hers as he murmured, "Point taken, koishii." Then he turned abruptly, getting out of bed as he left the room to wash up, leaving a scarlet-faced Misao in the bed alone to come over the shock of her morning.
Aoshi splashed freezing cold water onto his face, running his wet hands through his hair as he looked into the bathroom mirror. Noticing the first signs of facial hair, Aoshi frowned as he opened the cabinet doors, looking for a razor. Once he had found one, he lathered his lower face and began to shave carefully to avoid any painful nicks. The rustling of covers and the slight shuffling of feet on the floor notified Aoshi that Misao had gotten out of bed. Looking at her supple figure from her reflection in the mirror, Aoshi absentmindedly brought the razor down along his cheek, watching her brush her hair at the vanity table. Entirely unaware of his observation, Misao began to plait her thick, glossy hair, humming a wordless tune as she looked into the mirror in front of her. After nearly finishing her braid; however, Misao stopped, let go of her hair and reached over to grasp a beautiful hair clip. It gleamed a jade and rose color in the sun, complimenting her pale skin and black hair. Aoshi watched her as she hesitantly pulled her hair back in a loose half-ponytail and pinned it with the hair clip, letting a few strands frame her peach-shaped face. A sharp pain stung on his jaw as Aoshi looked at his reflection, startled. He had nicked himself—a faint trickle of blood ran down his face as he glared unpleasantly at his razor. Shaking his head slightly, Aoshi went back to shaving as he chided himself mentally for his lack of attention. It wasn't long before Misao's head stuck into the bathroom, a bright smile on her face as she said, "Ao—Ayo-san? I am going downstairs for some breakfast!"
Aoshi turned to Misao, his face still half-unshaven, as he nodded, "I have to do some business downtown, Meiko."
"What busi—Aoshi! You're bleeding!" In her worried shock, Misao had let Aoshi's name slip as she rushed over to bring her hands to his face, her eyes full with concern.
"It's quite alright, Reiko. I just nicked myself." Misao automatically brought her arms down, wringing her hands nervously as she dipped her head in affirmation. Aoshi turned back to the mirror to avoid her eyes, choosing to hide behind the safety of their assignment than face her about certain other things, "I must go and convince other figureheads of our authenticity. I'm warning you beforehand, Meiko—I will encourage people to come and visit us, so always be prepared."
Misao looked down at her clenched hands, biting her lip as she replied, "Hai, Ayo-san."
Without meeting Aoshi's eye, Misao backed up to make a swift withdrawal when Aoshi dropped his razor into the sink and spun on her, grabbing her by the wrist as he peered into her face, "There should be no formalities between the two of us, Meiko. We are, after all, husband and wife."
Misao looked into his eyes, her own flashing anxiously before a sudden change came over her, leaving her seem cool and unflinching as she agreed smoothly, "Understood, Ayo." Gently, but firmly relaxing his grip on her wrist, Misao slid out of the bathroom door, leaving an uneasy Aoshi by the sink. A collected and furtive smile passed over her countenance as she went downstairs for a bite to eat. At first, Misao had been unsure of how to act in this precarious situation—it seemed like a fragile assignment, and she was loath to spoil it from clumsiness. But Aoshi's rather black-and-white way of treating the mission enlightened her on how she should really act. Smiling confidently, Misao sauntered down to the kitchen as she thought of all the little niceties she could pull on her "husband". After all, who had ever said work couldn't be fun? If Aoshi wanted to make this charade the most realistic it could get, he would be in for a couple of surprises.
Aoshi frowned at Misao's retreating figure, his eyes dark and torn between amusement and preoccupation: it was that smile again. It was a slight turn of her head or a certain expression that convinced Aoshi of her maturity more than any of her subtle observations or cultivated words. Her walk, the way she spoke—that smile. Washing the suds off of his face, Aoshi winced slightly at the sting of his cut, wondering if he had gotten himself into deep waters with Misao. He knew once he was submerged, he wouldn't be able to make it out on his own; he could only hope that Misao was a good swimmer.
This will not do, he thought exasperatedly, as he held his hat in a gloved hand and a pool stick in another—he had found himself in a room full of billowing cigar smoke and devious men again. And he had thought he had seen the last of it with Saitou a few days ago… "Your turn, Hanabusa-san." Aoshi lifted his pool stick single handedly with a fluid grace as he placed his hat against a chair, aiming with precision at the clump of cue balls in front of him. With one swift move, he struck the center of two closely placed balls, sending them each into different slots as the men whistled admiringly. Aoshi let a suave smile come over his features as he said smoothly, "Your turn, Doctor Bretton." The aforementioned man was definitely the cleverest of the figureheads and politicos gathered in the room that afternoon. He stood with regal bearing, with well-chiseled features and a high brow: the man cut a fine figure in the room, even among his other European friends. Bowing in mock-reverence, the copper haired business lord tilted his hat to Aoshi as he murmured in response, "Wonderful English, Hanabusa-san." Aoshi let amused approval show through as he heard Dr. Bretton's well-cultivated Japanese—he showed no shame in having learned an Asian language, which was quite against the usual Imperialist standards for European men, even for those who lived in Japan. Aoshi himself had picked up English with ease, along with French and German—he knew from experience that his English was flawless, even if it turned towards the American accent rather than the British. Aoshi watched him nonchalantly, taking in every minimal detail—the exquisite, golden ring encased with precious stones on his left hand and the slight scar that ran from the line of his jaw to his ear. He was an intriguing character, and possibly the perfect suspect. Watching the distinguished gentleman as he prepared to make his move, Aoshi followed him with his eyes, mutely reciting: Choose, aim and strike. The cue ball hit the remaining black ball neatly into its hole as Aoshi dimly registered the sound of polite clapping flooding into his head.
"I couldn't have taken the jam, Sally, you should know that by now." Argh, was it should or would? She couldn't tell the damn difference between the two different tenses. Putting the slender grammar book aside, Misao stretched her supple frame as she suppressed a yawn. She was brushing up on her English skills so she could at least be presentable as an Ambassador's daughter-in-law. English is so complicated, Misao grumbled to herself as she opened an Italian classic that lay by her side. Now Italian, on the other hand, had an aquatic rhythm to it, a more logical structure and easier sounds to pronounce. She had taken to Italian immediately once she had the opportunity to learn a language of her choice—Italian was pure, unrestrained: just how communication should be. Opening La Commedia Divina written by Dante Alighieri, Misao smiled luxuriously as she fingered the pages and drifted into the world of Dante, Beatrice and the Purgatorio. Bringing her slender legs to rest against the tabletop as she rested her feet on the chair's seat, Misao fit comfortably in the large armchair, one arm holding the weighty book up to her face and another holding a half-eaten apple languidly. She was so engrossed in the fantastical adventures of Dante that she failed to see that she had been a certain person's object of attention for quite some time.
"Shouldn't you be brushing up on your English?"
Misao jumped—Goddammit, she hated it when he did that. Rising from her seat with a mild flush on her face as she put her book away guiltily, Misao bowed to her tall Okashira with a sheepish smile, "G-good afternoon, Ayo."
Inclining his head with a smile of sorts, Aoshi responded to Misao's wavering English with his own polished voice: "Good afternoon, my lady." In three strides, Aoshi managed to cross the room, hovering over her with remarkably close proximity. Misao couldn't tear her eyes off of his—once he had invaded her line of individual space, Misao found it hard to even think coherently. A dull thunk resonated through the small library as Misao remotely acknowledged that she had dropped her apple in surprise. A small flicker of amusement washed over Aoshi's features as he said, "'Should' has an obligatory tone to it, whereas 'would' has a subjunctive quality to it—it denotes possibility. Are you," he murmured as his face drew nearer to Misao's, "enlightened now?"
Misao smiled suddenly—Aoshi was quite the gentleman. Attempting to draw nearer to him, Misao grasped his shirtfront and stood tiptoe, as she whispered in response, "Not yet". Tilting her face upwards as she silently asked him for a kiss, Aoshi complied readily, his nose bumping against hers as he leaned forward to capture her lips.
"Hanabusa-san, your—Oh! I'm sorry for the interruption!" A maid, who had walked through the open door, had barged in on the intimate moment the couple was sharing. She bowed embarrassedly as she stuttered her apologies again and scampered out of the room. Misao and Aoshi, in the meantime, had separated hastily, their chests heaving with surprise and overwhelming emotions. Suddenly Misao gave him a shy smile as she said, "We look like a pair of kids who got caught red-handed with stolen fruit." Aoshi nodded in response, his eyes alight with wry humor. Then Misao did something neither of them had anticipated. She grabbed his collar and forced him to lean over so she could whisper something in his ear: "But just so you won't be disappointed…" Bringing her full lips hastily to his face, Misao gave him a swift peck on the cheek before she fled the room, her face flushing crimson to the very tips of her ears. Aoshi brought a gloved hand up to his face with surprise: how far would they really take this act to?
Author's Note: and in response to the question about the likelihood of the Japanese Ambassador being held in captivity in Britain, here's my answer: I never even thought about it! Ohohoho… actually, I would presume that the same British sleazes who are negotiating with the Japanese over illegal arms in my story would take the Ambassador and keep him where they could see him (i.e. somewhere in Asia).
I actually don't know if pool was invented at the time (I'm guessing that Lingering Fragrances is a little later than the Meiji era… around the early 1900s).