"The Other Wife" by: E. Marie E-mail: Emw712@aol.com

Author's Note: May 29, 2003: For those who reviewed this story before I updated and performed a brief rewrite-I owe you my thanks. For you free- loaders enjoying a better written chapter without making a review...grrrrr....You know what you're supposed to do! REVIEW!

DISCLAIMER: By the by, I do not own Inuyasha in any form, so, no matter how much you want to sue me, all you'll get will be a stick of gum and this story.

Chapter 2: The Girl with the Crimson Face
I coughed as poisonous bits of cigar smoke tarnished my lungs. No matter how much I protested, the Lady Yura, my "benevolent" employer, insisted upon smoking the hideous creations.while smoke billowed out of her gaping mouth, straight into mine. With a sigh, I tried to refocus on the needlework in front of me. Admittedly, my line of work was not glamorous. I had been a hired companion to the rude and affluent for the last year, since the death of my grandfather, my sole guardian. The day of his wake, in her famous, tactless fashion, the good lady offered me a rather adequate stipend to follow her on her "globe trots" and listen to her complain about the weather on three different continents. Since that time, I came to my majority and could easily break my ties with her, but there was no one else in the world for me except that bitter, old dragon-a thought that oppressed my spirits daily.
My eyes watered, and I convulsed with another fit of coughing . Lady Yura curled her lower lip into a fixed sneer and set a glare upon my rocking frame-in her opinion, any involuntary action was very unladylike.
"There is no need to continue in your vulgar protests of my relishing this wonderful cigar. You have been a very bad girl indeed, losing those golden tipped arrows I bought you, and you will appreciate the cultural varnish of my cigar until you become a better lady", claimed the lady, as she blew another plume of smoke out the side of her mouth. No matter her mood, which oscillated between disgust and arrogance, she never lost that set sneer, her trademark of dissatisfaction with me and, as I learned from my time in her service, an empty soul.
Soulless or not, the Lady Yura and the members of her class certainly lived in surroundings that made it quite easy to forget any bitterness or disappointment. The hotel where we were staying, the "belle riveau" of Monte Carlo, made every space a spectacular sight. The splendor of the opening lobby could take your breath away-the gilded chandeliers, the sterling revolving doors...the leather lounge on which I sat at that moment probably cost more than a poor travelling companion like I made in a year.
"Where is that waiter?", cried out my mistress, drawing looks from the more refined guests in the lobby. " I requested tea with lemon a clear five minutes ago, and I have yet to be answered. There is nothing more bourgeois than a young woman without an appreciation for a classy cigar and an impotent waiter."
Trying valiantly to hide my laughter at hearing milady accuse our waiter of a lack of sexual appetite instead of impertinence, I feigned another cough and began to search through my bag for my needlepoint. Though I certainly had no talent for domestic crafts, having been raised by my grandfather, an aging artist, I wanted more than anything to distance myself from the embarrassing ravings of my mistress, whose loud, tasteless remarks were drawing the usual negative attention from the other guests in the lobby.
Pulling forth my cloth and needle and righting myself once more, something shimmered in the corner of my sight and drew my attention. For a moment, I thought that silver gleam was just the flash of the revolving door, but in an instant, my heart leaped into my throat and stopped beating altogether as I saw the true source of that remarkable silver radiance.
Like a fairy tale creature or some specter from beyond the grave, he was surrounded in an ethereal aura, a glow that seemed to resonate from his very being. His silver hair gleamed in contrast to that remarkable white suit, and as he stood for a moment at the threshold of the lobby, straightening his countenance and surveying the room, he still reminded me of a feudal lord, looking over his lands. From my vantagepoint, I was hidden from his vision, but peering around the Lady Yura, I could see clearly his eyes, the distant fixed glance and the hidden sadness.
Without warning, his head snapped in my direction, his amber eyes boring into my very soul, making me gasp out loud. As my face began to burn crimson from the shame of my unrestrained study of him and the memory of our last meeting, I was entirely unprepared for what was about to follow.
Noticing my sudden trance and discovering the cause, the Lady Yura seized upon the opportunity to further exhibit her presence to the entire unwitting audience of the lobby guests. Stabbing her cigar violently into the nearest ashtray, she twisted her plump body around in her chair and bellowed, "Inuyasha! How nice to see you've returned to Monte Carlo!"
His eyes twitched in disgust, and I saw the reluctance in his eyes to shift his attention from me to the hollering fool across from me. The Lady Yura continued in her loud requests, her attempts to lure him into conversation, and to either spare the others in the lobby or to end the mutual embarrassment, Inuyasha made his way to milady's side.
'Inuyasha'. The name rang inside my head, vaguely familiar, like an indistinguishable fragrance from a pleasant memory. As he made his way unhurriedly across the foyer, my eyes widened as I remembered who this man was. In one of her many external monologues about the problems of others and her criticism of her wealthy brethren, the Lady Yura gave me a postcard of a wonderful mansion, a wonderful regional landmark, not fifty miles from my grandfather's home.
Thrusting the card into my hands, the lady lit yet another cigar. "I found this in the bottom of my suitcase; I meant to throw it out, but I suppose you can have it, as a reward for minding me in my last case of vapors. That, my dear, is the Shikkon of the eastern coast of your homeland; I assume someone of your stature has never even seen it. How bourgeois. Inuyasha, the owner of this particular ancient mansion has lived a life just marred, I mean just marred, by delicious scandals and tragedies. He was the son of the greatest lord of the east, his mother, some no-name beauty from the lower class-what a scandal that caused! Luckily, they both died many years ago, ending that particular trouble. Because of his chiseled features, his personality, and his enormous inheritance, Inuyasha's origin is quite forgivable. I would have loved nothing more than for him to take an interest in my daughter, Gladiola, but he is such an intense, private person, hardly sociable. He married this wonderful woman, great breeding, talent, beauty, social flare, the perfect wife. Poor dear-I heard he was just devastated by her sudden death last May. He hasn't been in society since.."
My eyes widened. That conversation was almost a year ago, and yet that deep sadness still resonated within the amber pools of his eyes. I had thought of this man without seeing his face many times after that conversation, feeling a shared sense of sorrow, for we had both lost loved ones to sudden, inexplicable tragedy. I had laid my grief over my grandfather's death to rest years before, but as he made his way closer to me, his silver hair swaying in rhythm with his every step, I came to a sudden realization. There was more than sorrow behind his expression: there was a deep pain there, too, that only seemed to fester the closer he got to where I sat. Crumpling the fabric of my needlework tightly within my clenched fists, I prepared myself, for in a second, I would speak again to the man who I saved from the edge of self-destruction, a man who I had wounded, merely by existing.