This is how you remind me.

"You know, Omasu," she said, lying back on her bed as the other woman sorted through her cupboard, as if looking for something, "you were right."

"About what, Misao-san?" said Omasu. She had dropped the 'miss' a couple of weeks ago, replacing it with a '-san' that Misao didn't mind.

"That Aoshi-sama – I mean, Shinomori-san – was nice. I mean, I liked him, but I didn't know if he was nice or not, know what I mean? But he is nice. And I couldn't really tell, but I thought he was pretty surprised when I walked in."

"Well, I told you," said Omasu, looking a little pleased with herself. "Aoshi-sama is nice, but he just doesn't like being around people much. And so, obviously, people tend to avoid him as well, since he makes them uncomfortable."

"He makes me uncomfortable," Misao said truthfully, spreading her arms out as she lay on the bed. "But I can deal with that. I like talking to him."

"Well, you've phrased that right," smiled Omasu, hanging up her nightdress on a triangular piece of wood she called a 'hanger' and placing it in the cupboard. "You couldn't possibly say that you liked talking with him."

Misao laughed. "No, I did the talking. But he replied in full sentences, which is more than he did when I met him on the stairs a couple of days ago."

Omasu smiled. "Wow. Did you count the number of words he spoke, too? And take notes?"

She threw a pillow at her, grinning. "No! I'm being serious here!"

"So am I!" laughed Omasu, closing the cupboard and turning around. "But no, truthfully, Misao-san, I'm glad. Aoshi-sama needs someone to talk to him and get him out of his world of spying and government work. And if he doesn't mind your company, I can't think of anyone better."

"Mind my company?" she said doubtfully. "I think he does. He looked pretty annoyed in the beginning, when I came in. But what did he expect – avoiding me like that!"

 "He doesn't know you," she said, smiling. "After all, you've been living here for a month and a half and he's only been here for a total of four days in that entire time span. Give him some time. Besides, the last girl your age he ever saw was Kaoru, and he never had to talk to her."

Misao grinned. "Yeah, well, anyway, I thought he was nice. Is he going to go away on business again soon?"

Omasu shrugged. "You never know, with him. Perhaps. You should corner him more often, you know … barge in on him when he doesn't expect it … it will do him good."

"Yes, but … I'm running out of things to talk to him about. It's not like he's ever going to reply in more than a 'yes' or a 'no' anyway, so I have to say something to which the reply only is 'yes' or 'no' … that way I don't think he feels that uncomfortable, and I don't feel like he doesn't want me around. I mean, I do feel like that, obviously, but still … "

Omasu pursed up her lips and stared at the closed door of the cupboard intently, only half listening to her. "Misao-san," she said, turning towards her, "how would you like to go in to town today with Okon and I to buy yourself some new clothes? You must be sick and tired of wearing the same skirt for over a month now."

Misao sat up in a flash. "Hontou?" she squealed, then checked her lapse. "Really?" she corrected excitedly. "I'd love to! But … when I talked to Aoshi-sama – that is, Shinomori-san – mou, I'm getting used to calling him Aoshi-sama just like you and the others do! – he said I couldn't go down to the village just yet. And besides, where would I get the money from?"

"Oh, I'll ask Aoshi-sama, don't you worry," said Omasu with a smile. "And do you seriously think he won't provide for you? He should have let me take you ages ago, but I never got around to asking him. Get yourself ready – I'll come to take you to the carriage in about half an hour, all right?"

"Okay!" she said happily, bouncing off the bed and landing on her backside on the floor. Omasu turned and left, and in less than twenty minutes Misao found herself standing outside in the cool air, her dark, worn-out coat covering her short-sleeved blouse and skirt. The wind had a vicious bite to it, evidence of the approaching winter.

The ride into town was far more enjoyable than the last time Misao had made the same journey. She had her face pressed to the window constantly, watching the heaving surface of the moors and the occasional whitewashed building near the edge of the rutted road. The sight reminded her of the sea; her parents had taken her once, without her beloved Jiya, and – awed as she had been by the roaring, tossing waves – she hadn't enjoyed the trip at all. Being forced to play with pretty little dolls with pretty little girls in pretty little kimonos was not her idea of a good trip.

The weather, clear but nippy, held out till they reached the town. It was a small place, with a couple of taverns, some rundown shops, and a few wooden houses scattered over the place. The train station was by far the largest building around. Omasu, nodding to people here and there, led Misao into a small shop off to their right, ordering the carriage to remain outside. The shop was dim and dark, with a wooden counter running all around it. The shelves behind the counter were stacked with rolls of a variety of materials, none of them the bright, striking colours she was used to seeing in cloth shops.

"Mrs. Pritchard!" said Omasu, smiling at the small, dumpy woman who stood behind the counter, poring over a fat ledger. "How are you? I haven't seen you for quite a while now!"

"Yes," agreed the woman, nodding at her with a kind, benevolent smile. "Where have you been? And what's this?" She peered at Misao, blinking her eyes rapidly.

Omasu pushed her to the front, still smiling. "This is Mr. Shinomori's ward," she said. "She's just come from Japan, and she needs a few dresses."

"Of course!" said Mrs. Pritchard, waddling out from behind the counter and grabbing Misao's elbow. "Come here, girl, come here. Yes, stand on this. No, no, no! Have you never been measured for a dress before? Stand straight! Yes, that's it!"

"Mou," said Misao, clicking her heels together. She had never had to be measured for kimonos; the obi was simply tightened or loosened as was appropriate. The sleeves and the length were no problem, since all her kimonos had been handed down from her mother, who had much the same build that she did.

"Now, Misao-san," admonished Omasu, inspecting a rich maroon cloth with a velvety sheen to it. "Listen to Mrs. Pritchard. She knows what she's doing."

Misao made a face but said nothing as the chubby woman measured every possible aspect of her, from the width of her calves to the width of her wrists. She hopped down from the wooden stand she had been made to stand on as Omasu and Mrs. Pritchard discussed various sorts of materials and prices. She stood to one side, hoping against hope that they'd buy her something other than grey and black. Black always made her look sallow.

"How's Mr. Shinomori, then?" said Mrs. Pritchard, expertly rolling up a stretch of cloth Omasu had already inspected.

"Well enough," answered Omasu. "He's returned from London."

"Thought so," said Mrs. Pritchard knowledgeably. "I told young Amanda last night that there was more going on at that manor than we knew about. And I was right … here you come, with his ward under your wing, the very next day."

Omasu laughed. "Good for you, Mrs. Pritchard. I'm sure Amanda will be very put off."

"Yes," said the woman, a sadistic gleam in her eye. "That she will. Deserves to be, too – that girl needs to learn to listen to her elders, that's what. Besides, she should know I know a good deal more about Mr. Shinomori's father and mother, bless their souls, than she does!"

Omasu said something Misao couldn't quite make out, and Mrs. Pritchard directed a sharp glance her way, then shrugged. "Of course!" she said. "I won't say a word about his mother, of course not! By the way, will you be checking up on Megumi on your way back? Kaoru might appreciate that – that sister of hers hasn't been home for a good three days, and I'm sure she's getting worried."

Omasu looked thoughtful, then nodded. "We'll drop by at the clinic, if that's the case. Now, how much is this material?"

The discussion went on for a while, and Misao quickly lost interest. They left the shop with cloth enough for two dresses, and some material already given for stitching – Mrs. Pritchard had agreed to sew the clothes as a 'special favour'. Obviously, Omasu had known her a long time. They headed for a small, two-storey building a few minutes down the road, with the words 'Misselthwaite Clinic' scrawled across a wooden board above the entrance.

"Mr. Rogers?" called Omasu, opening the door and walking in without ceremony. They were in a small, dim corridor, with a few wooden chairs lining the sides. No one answered. "Dr. Rogers?" she called again, walking through the passageway. They came out in a large room with peeling paint and the faint smell of spirit. Beds lined both sides of the room, totalling about twelve or fourteen. A small spiral staircase in the corner led to what was presumably the second floor. On the bed next to it lay a small boy, either unconscious or asleep. A young woman, dark hair held back by a white handkerchief, slumped forward on a chair beside the bed, sleeping.

A strangely soft expression appeared on Omasu's face. She stepped forward, with Misao in tow, and gently touched the young woman's shoulder. She awoke with a start, her eyes looking around with a panicked expression. "I'm so sorry, Dr. Rogers! I didn't mean to sleep, I really didn't – oh!"

She stared up at Omasu with an ashamed expression. "Miss Omasu! I – I didn't know that you were – "

Omasu smiled. "No, Dr. Rogers isn't here, Miss Megumi. I just came by to check on you – I hear you haven't been home for over three days, and Kaoru's very worried about you. You could have at least sent word." Her voice was admonishing but kind.

The young woman smiled, rubbing a tired hand across her eyes. "Yes, I should have. It's just – we've been so busy here, Dr. Rogers and I. The boy's fever just broke last night, and we're still not completely sure he'll live. He needs constant care – and there's nobody but me and Dr. Rogers who're qualified enough to provide it! And here I am, sleeping!"

Omasu places a comforting hand on her shoulder. "It's all right, Megumi. Here, why don't you and Misao here go outside and buy yourselves a bun from the bakery across the road, and I'll sit here and watch over the boy? Yes, yes, I know – I'm not qualified, but it's just five minutes. You look as if you need a snack."

The black-haired woman looked doubtful for a second, then sighed and gave in. "All right, thank you, Miss Omasu. I – I'm really grateful." She stood up, taking off her doctor's smock as she did so.

"It's no trouble," said Omasu, smiling. "Now, go on – I don't think you've met Misao before, but I'm sure Kaoru's talked about her."

"Yes," smiled Megumi, beginning to walk out of the clinic with Misao close on her heels. "You seem to be good friends with my sister."

"She's nice," said Misao, hurrying to catch up. "I liked her."

"She is nice, isn't she?" said the young woman, crossing the road. "Too nice for her own good, sometimes, letting Kenshin and that other idiot we have boarding with us mooch off her scant income. I don't mind Kenshin – at least he helps around the house – but the other one – !"

Misao grinned. "She told me you didn't like him."

"That's obvious enough," Megumi said, smiling as she swung open the door to the bakery, from which delicious smells wafted towards them. "But enough about our life – how do you like England? Or Misselthwaite, to be exact."

"I quite like it," she said truthfully, watching her purchase two cream-filled pastries that made her mouth water. "Didn't think I would, but I do. The manor is a nice place to live, once you get to know it, I think. Shinomori-san is nice, too."

The young doctor looked at her askance. "You think so? Many people don't."

Misao shrugged defensively. "Yeah, well, that's because they don't know him. I don't know him, either, but at least I want to know him, and just wanting to know him makes you understand him better, know what I mean?"

She handed her one of the buns, biting into her own with a blissful expression. "Perhaps. Most people don't want to know him either, not with the stories about his mother and father that go around in these circles."

"Everyone's talking about those!" said Misao exasperatedly. "No one ever tells me what they are!"

Megumi looked thoughtful. "Well, its such common knowledge that I guess everyone sort of skirts the topic … it isn't a very clear story, either – just rumours, speculation … the usual village gossip. Not to be credited. I may not like Mr. Shinomori much, but I grant him this much – I don't think they're true."

"Argh!" said Misao, savagely biting into her bun. "What are the rumours?"

Megumi half smiled, then said seriously, "I'm not the one to be telling you, Miss Misao, considering we've only known each other a total of five minutes, but … you must know that his mother was an Englishwoman. Her family had lived here for ages and ages, and she was the only daughter. So she inherited everything – the manor, the land around it … the family fortune. And then she met this young man while she was holidaying with her parents down south, a young Japanese man who'd just gotten here as a stowaway on a ship, all ready to 'make his fortune'. He did, just not quite in the way he expected. Long and short of it is, they fell in love and got married, even though her parents disapproved. They disappeared for a while, the two of them, and then when both her parents died, the property obviously passed to her, there being no other heir."

"So what was the catch? Seems simple enough to me," said Misao, devouring more of her bun and enjoying the cream oozing out of it.

Megumi shook her head. "You have no idea how scandalous the marriage itself was. She had married well beneath her station, a foreigner, no less, who didn't have a shilling to his name. When they both moved back to the family manor, they were completely shut out of society. But people still sensed that things weren't quite – right – between them. They'd had a son – our current Mr. Shinomori – and he was a strange little boy, people said, who never played around or talked to anybody. No, they were considered quite the outcasts. And the mother had been a bright, vivacious young girl, and was now just an empty shell – it was as if the husband and the son had sucked the brightness out of her." She paused, her eyes distant. "They said he – her husband – used to hit her. I – It was true. I saw them once; I was just a little girl, and I had gone up to the manor with my father, and they were out in the gardens, and one minute they were laughing and smiling and talking, and the next he was lunging at her, grabbing her by the hair, banging her head into the ground … it was horrible …"

Misao stared, her bun held loosely in limp fingers. "God," she said, wincing.

"Yes," said Megumi, her gaze still far away. "She died a couple of weeks later. We were all sorry – she hadn't deserved that. People say the husband killed her so that he could have the money. I don't know, personally. It's quite possible he killed her – just not for that reason. That's one of the main reasons I'm never going to get married."

"So – so why don't people like Ao – Shinomori-san?" said Misao, swallowing a piece of the bun with difficulty.

"Well, obviously, they'd like to avoid the son of a man like that," said Megumi briskly, suddenly jerking herself back to the present and beginning to cross the road. "And he's not known for his social skills, either. And also … well, its common knowledge that he didn't have a terribly great relationship with his father as well. Rumour is that he killed him."

Misao choked on her bun. "People say Aoshi-sama killed his own father? Please!"

"Like I said," said Megumi, "I don't believe that bit. Not one word of it. Mr. Shinomori's a decent man, to a certain extent. We live off him, and he doesn't say a word to Kaoru when she goes up to the manor. As long as he doesn't lift a finger to hurt her, I won't mind."

That, reflected Misao, sounded a lot like what Kaoru had said the first time she had met her. They went back to the clinic, chattering about inconsequential things until Omasu decided it was time to leave. She was deep in thought on their way back up to the mansion, missing the view of it atop the moors once again, and surprisingly not very annoyed with herself about it.

"Something wrong, Misao-san?" asked Omasu, as she walked her to her room.

"No," said Misao distractedly, then, stopping her as she turned to go, blurted, "Omasu – did – did weird things happen in this house?"

Omasu's face took on a carefully blank expression. "What do you mean, Misao-san?"

"Oh – just – well – did they? Any sort of weird things?" she said, floundering for words.

Omasu looked at her for a long time, before turning away. "It depends what you mean, Misao-san, but yes … things did happen. Things you'd rather not know about. Things you'd rather not talk to Aoshi-sama about."

Misao stared at her retreating back and mulled over her warning. So she wasn't supposed to mention village gossip to Shinomori-san, eh? Well, she wouldn't – not yet, at least. Maybe when she got to know him better, or some such thing. Right now, she had promised Shiro to help in piling up leaves to be burnt in a bonfire, and she'd never be able to help if she didn't go immediately. Pushing the thoughts of murders and dead parents out her mind with her trademark grin, she hopped downstairs again, not noticing a tall figure watching her at the end of the corridor, blue-grey eyes glinting.