These five words in my head …
~*~
He was surprised to realise that he was nervous.
He had been worried about the dinner before, of course he had. He had been apprehensive and anxious and had found his trepidation the slightest bit funny, but he had thought, in the past few days, that he had resigned himself to what was to come, that there was no point in being nervous anymore because he had done what he could to prepare and now he would just have to face whatever was thrown at him.
But he couldn't get his tie right the first time he tried, and the silky material kept slipping through his fingers, refusing to knot at his collar, and his waistcoat didn't feel sufficiently pressed and he'd already had it sent down once for Omasu to iron it again, and she had whined and grumbled about how much work she still had to do and now having to heat the coal-iron all over again …
He hadn't thought he'd still be nervous.
Maybe it wasn't nervousness, precisely. He straightened his coat, fixed the white gloves he was wearing to cover the handguards he had on underneath, and surveyed his room one last time. Maybe it was the air of anticipation that hung over the entire house, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for the doom that was sure to come. Maybe it was the way Misao had looked at him in the morning, eyes sad and reproachful when he'd brushed her off, and then hardening to grim resolve as he walked away … she wasn't going to pull anything, was she? He wouldn't put it past her, but somehow he thought even she wouldn't jeopardize his work like that.
Then again, she'd already ripped up a precious document, thrown a knife in another, spilt orange juice over a third …
He shook his head, a short, sharp motion, and went into his office, going through all the information he had on Morrison before stashing it away in a doubled compartment in his filing cabinet. If the general was as sneaky as Symonds had made him out to be, he might manage to get up here – or get someone else up here – and it would be disastrous to have him find his documents.
Locking his office was something he did often, but this time he locked the narrow door to his bedroom as well – just in case – before he left both and headed downstairs. The house seemed cleaner – and far quieter – than usual, the beige carpet all brushed in one direction, the decoration pieces in the withdrawing room and the hall straightened and dusted. He needed to look at the dining room, just to be satisfied; he'd already spoken to Omasu and Okon about the seating arrangements – where he wanted to sit, where he wanted General Morrison to be seated, where Misao should be put, next to him, so that he could cover up for any foibles on her part …
The silver was set out, the utensils shining evilly in the dim candlelight. They'd put on the oil-lamps when the guests arrived, but not yet – Omasu and Okon were sticklers for economy. He looked at the array of cutlery, and couldn't help the stab of nervousness that clenched his stomach. All those different forks, for all those different foods, and the square-shaped spoons … His mouth clenched, determined to keep down the panic. If Morrison got decapitated before he could question him properly, he would only have himself to blame for being such a horrible teacher.
He supposed he should check on Misao. She should be ready by now, and he needed to make sure that she wasn't going to lose her temper and launch a glass of water – or worse, a couple of well-aimed knives – across the table. Perhaps he should have spoken to her when she came to him in the morning … but he had to commit everything he knew about the French infiltration to memory, and he couldn't with her distracting him like that …
The door of her room was glaring at him before he knew it, and inside he could hear voices – Omasu (so much for her claims of work), Misao, high-pitched and excited, and another girl … he couldn't be sure, muffled as it was through the wood, but he thought it was the cleaning girl, Kaoru. If they were all in there, it probably meant that Misao was pretty much ready. He hoped.
He hoped, and he knocked.
There was the sound of laughing – giggling – and then the door swung open, the dark-haired girl who opened it already halfway through her sentence, "My God, Okon, what took you – you …"
He heard gasps behind her, and he looked past to see Omasu sitting on the bed, hair piled on her head, with Misao on the three-legged stool in front of her dressing table, wearing a white – shift – he supposed it was, because it looked even flimsier than her nightclothes, and … should he leave? Should he stay? Should he run for his life?
"Aoshi-sama!" said Omasu, getting to her feet. "I didn't think – "
He supposed it was best if he spoke now, before he clammed up completely and simply walked out. Did he want to walk out? He didn't think – "I just wanted to speak to Misao."
"Of course," Omasu said, grabbing Kaoru by the elbow and ushering her out. He stood there dumbly – ushering her out? Leaving? Him, here with her? What happened to propriety, to the laws of society that made sure everyone was decently covered in each other's presence?
She looked at him, slight blush staining her cheeks, looking just as usual, dark braid hanging down her back, blue-green eyes wide … smooth skin and slim arms and so small … but with the hint of curves beneath the insubstantial material … "Hai, Aoshi-sama?" she said, and he knew the Japanese wasn't to annoy him – it was just because she was surprised.
"I thought you would be ready," he said, and it was the truth.
"We – Omasu and Kaoru were waiting for Okon – it won't take very long, I promise, and … seriously. I won't be late."
He nodded. She continued to look at him, and he wondered how to ask what he had to … he could be tactful, he could weave a conversation to find out what he wanted, given time and motivation … but as distracted as he was right now, he knew he wasn't capable of it. So he did the only thing he could. He said, "Misao, are you planning to ruin the dinner?"
She blinked, and then started laughing. "God, no!" she grinned, eyes dancing. "I mean, I thought about it, but then – it's important to you – and – can't believe you actually asked me that." She bent over, still laughing, and he caught an uncomfortable glimpse and was forced to avert his eyes before she straightened.
He nodded once again, because there was nothing for him to do but nod and swallow and hope she didn't stand up and come towards him, because – "Thank you," he said, surprised at his own words.
She seemed slightly startled too, but then a smile spread across her features, glowing and beautiful, just like her. "You're welcome," she said. "I think. But if I feel really angry, I'll step on your foot or something, okay?"
His head moved of its own accord as he nodded once more. "As long as you don't pinch me."
She laughed again. "No worries, Aoshi-sama."
~*~
He was an isolationist by nature, and an isolationist by profession. He knew that, he was proud of it, almost, at his ability to be detached, to be outside – above, really – the rest of the world and its problems and its thoughts. He knew that that was why he lived here, in a huge hollow mansion that echoed with the whispers of past wrongs, a mansion separated from the rest of the busy social world, separated even from the small town it took its name from. Here, he could be apart. Here, he could work, and exist, and be separate.
It was only at times such as these that he realised how cut off his world really was from the rest of society.
It was not that he didn't know what the rest of the world was like. It was not as if he never went abroad – he did, continuously – or that he had never met people to whom his own existence seemed monotonous and pointless. It was not as if he had never drawn comparisons between the cold silence of Misselthwaite Manor and the continuous hubbub in the London hotels he stayed in, or between his lonely – and he hadn't minded, before Misao – lifestyle and the colourful existence of the upper class circles he met in the city.
It was just that he had never had that part of the world, that gay, painted, sordid side of society, intrude upon his space.
He made a sharp distinction between his worlds – there was that world, the one that he worked for, out there, beyond Misselthwaite, the place where he carried out infiltrations and collected information, and then there was this, his refuge, where he was never forced to be anyone else, never forced to speak and pretend to smile. He did not like them to mesh. It made him think things he didn't like, things about his father and his mother he didn't want to face … it made him understand, when he looked at the superficiality of the people around him, what his mother was thinking when … and he didn't want to understand. He wanted to hate his father in peace.
"Why, Shinomori, I always understood you had a lot of lands left to you – but my word, this place is huge!"
"It is," he agreed, sipping his drink. Omasu had brought him water without anyone noticing – he was not a good drinker, and he knew he would be forced to hold down some wine later in the evening. He would prefer to get in as much water as he could, before that.
"Would you mind if I took a look around? I've always been interested in these old houses, and this manor has stood here for over two centuries, you said?"
Well, well, well. So Raleigh was in with Morrison. He hadn't expected that. He'd thought Morrison would have someone with a little more tact as his contact, not this bumbling fool who'd made his intentions of wandering around the house so very obvious. "Almost three, actually," he said calmly. Symonds was chatting up a group of women – trust him to get distracted that easily. He'd have to wait to give him the signal, after which he could keep an eye on Raleigh while Aoshi himself went over and got into conversation with Morrison.
"You mean it's been standing here since the 1500s?" Raleigh's voice seemed interested enough, but his eyes lacked the spark of a true craze. Contact. Definitely. That was one success for the night, then.
"Early 17th century," he corrected mildly. "1608, to be precise." Ah. Symonds had caught his eye; he raised his glass, tilted ever so slightly towards Raleigh, and saw the understanding in Symonds' slightly vapid eyes. "Would you excuse me a moment? I must speak with my ward."
"Of course, of course," said Raleigh jovially as Symonds smiled himself out of the group of women and came towards them. "Pretty girl, your ward, even if she is – " He broke off, turning to Symonds with a slightly uncomfortable smile on his red face.
A tilted-eyed Jap. A yellow-skinned Chink. He knew what he had been going to say. He knew, because he had faced so much of it himself. He was half English, it was his only saving grace – but Misao … Misao had nothing but him to rely on in order to be accepted in a society like this, and what good was he?
But he wasn't going to say anything. If he was angry, letting it out would get him nowhere. He was a professional, and he would do his job, take the taunts. Not that Raleigh had meant anything by what he said. In fact, he should be honoured that Raleigh had forgotten himself enough to say something like that in his presence – he had forgotten that Aoshi himself wasn't completely English. He had integrated himself that much into their world.
The thought didn't give him the satisfaction well done work usually did.
Misao was sitting by herself on the edge of a sofa, admiring the patterns of colour created by the champagne in her glass. Who'd served her champagne, anyway? He'd have to have a talk with Okon and Omasu about that. He walked over to her, thankful for the easy excuse she provided. 'I must speak with my ward.' It was so simple, withdrawing from a conversation with those words, going over to her and being able to say – nothing. An escape route, a believable one, and it was such a luxury to be able to find someone in a gathering like this to whom he didn't have to talk, with whom he didn't have to pretend …
She looked up at him and smiled with such relief that he was tempted to smile back, except he didn't want her running out of the room screaming in joy. "Aoshi-sama! Thank God you're here. The woman behind you keeps glaring at me, and it's not my fault that she tried to talk and I couldn't help her out when she told me about how pretty her daughters were – I mean, I told her that I was sure my daughters could never be that pretty – and she went away all huffy …"
He knew it wasn't right for him to sit down beside her, not on that small sofa, but it wasn't correct for him to stand and her to sit the way she was sitting – all on the edge of her seat, looking up at him with those huge eyes. Oh, hell. Let the girl sit however she wanted – why should he restrict her anymore than she was already restricted? "Young women aren't supposed to talk about marriage and children so familiarly to someone they don't know," he said, keeping his voice as low as he could.
"She was talking to me about her children, and I can't talk to her about mine?"
"You don't have any children, Misao."
"Exactly. So it's an unfair conversation from the start."
He took a sip from his glass, suppressing a sigh. It amused him, really, how she would give responses he had longed to, once, when he was younger – a longing dampened by age and resignation. And he knew he could be stricter, and firmer, and that he should … but he didn't like the Misao he created by that, didn't like the meek girl with her polite answers, the way she had been at the beginning of the evening, quiet and suppressed, with those huge eyes staring out at everybody, until boredom had brought her back to a semblance of her usual self.
She looked all wrong, too. Not that she looked bad – far from it. He supposed, objectively, she looked prettier, far more womanly than she usually did. She was not – never would be – classically beautiful; too thin, eyes too big, lips and nose too small, but the gown was a deep colour that brought out her eyes, and her hair was caught up behind her head, a few loose curls draping over her shoulder, and the dress accentuated the curviness in her figure …
But he didn't like it.
It just wasn't her. Wasn't Misao. Misao was the girl who wore skirts knotted up above her knees, Misao was the girl with the long braid that whipped out behind her, twisted and turned with her every movement, lending her a grace and a sensuality this new hairstyle never could. He associated mobility with Misao, associated the constant change and flux of her moods and her conversations with the way her braid moved with every turn of her head, the way her limbs always moved fluid and unrestricted, the way she would forget herself and put her feet up on the edge of his desk, unhampered by propriety and the limitations that came with it.
And that wasn't the girl who sat before him now.
This girl had her knees tightly closed, had her thin shoulders straight, and her eyes laughing. This girl was a mix of both, and it wasn't a mix he liked. Oh, it was better than the so-polite girl from the beginning of the evening, but it still wasn't her.
"Oh, come on, Aoshi-sama, don't zone out in the middle of a party!"
"I did not zone out," he said. "Keep your voice down."
She glanced around guiltily. "Sorry. And yes, you did. You got this scary 'grr' look on your face, and then you just blanked out completely, no expression … but your eyes went mushy …"
Mushy? "I was thinking about my work, Misao."
"Hence the scowling. Why the mush, though?"
He racked his brains for a moment, looking for a good explanation – I was thinking about you. General Morrison is the love of my life. – and then decided that that remark was not worth a reply. But really, were his thoughts that transparent? Probably not – Misao tended to exaggerate things, most likely his eyes had softened, but even that was unacceptable …
Okon's invitation to enter the dining room seemed like a very welcome interruption.
Dinner passed fairly uneventfully, considering it had been the part of the evening he had been dreading most. General Morrison deserved his reputation as an amazing spy; he talked like an accomplished man, spoke of the army in glowing terms, didn't seem to be close-mouthed about a single subject – but he told them nothing they didn't already know, didn't mention anything about the network in France, which either meant that he didn't know about it and that they were still safe, or that he did and he was toying with them, and never let anything slip about the decisions of the army or the government he shouldn't have known about and yet most definitely did – they had that on record from various other sources.
On the more trivial side – and more immediately disastrous – Misao managed to labour her way through the three-course meal without too many side-effects. She slammed down on his foot twice, causing him to bite the inside of his cheek, and making General Morrison look at him oddly when he stopped speaking in mid-sentence in order to swallow a mouthful of food that wasn't there. And she spilt a goblet of cold water all over his thigh, at which Symonds had glanced at him askance as he put a calm hand to his face and did his best not to twitch in discomfort as the icy liquid soaked through his trousers and ran along his skin. But no one else saw – at least Misao was discreet in her mistakes – and she smiled and chattered throughout the dinner, making up for his preoccupation with the water on his leg and General Morrison. He didn't know where all that fluent conversation came from, but he was glad that it came, and scandalous as many of her comments were, at least they kept his guests occupied.
Afterwards, moving to the withdrawing room, the time for slightly more informal talk and airing of accomplishments – music the women could play, and such – he had come to realise that pumping Morrison for information was useless, and that he would just have to do what he could on his trip to France in a couple of weeks. He gave Symonds the signal – the one that meant, "All right, I've had enough, just get out of my house!" – and Symonds stood up to take his leave. The other guests followed, with random comments about his lovely house, his lovely young ward, and his lovely dinner, all the way to the front door.
He'd speak with Symonds later, discuss the ramifications of Raleigh being the contact with both him and Davidson afterwards. Right now, all he wanted was a cup of tea and some time in front of the fireplace, even though the fires were only lit occasionally now that summer was coming. He settled himself in an armchair after sticking his head into the kitchen and asking Omasu to make him some tea, watching the fire flicker in the grate. He rarely used this room, adjoining the dining room as it was – it was too public for him, not self-contained like the library, not his like the office and bedroom upstairs. But it had been cleaned out just yesterday, and it looked warm and dull-edged in the dim firelight, so he'd sat down in it just for the sake of change …
Not that he liked change. He hated change. Always had.
Except for Misao. Misao was one change he hadn't minded.
What he did mind, on the other hand, were his thoughts, his changing, shifting thoughts, the way his brain nose-dived when he was around her, like it had today when he'd walked into her room … That wasn't him. It was her who was ever-changing, attitudes and expressions and all, not him. He was fixed, his mind was fixed, his thoughts were fixed. He didn't like change. He didn't like his thoughts veering from the way they should be. And he knew the way they should be.
"Aoshi-sama?"
Her voice was clear, unhesitant, calling his eyes away from their obligatory perusal of the fire. He looked at her in the doorway, tea-tray in her hands, and said, "Come in, Misao."
She did, her walk so much different now that there was nobody – nobody but him – to see, bubbly and unrestrained, her steps longer, more unladylike, but never without their own kind of grace, because her legs weren't long enough to let her take huge strides. She sat down in the armchair opposite him, putting the tea tray down on the table between them, smiling at him.
"Omasu said I might as well take it, since I was going in to see you anyway," she said in answer to a question he hadn't even voiced. "You want me to put something in it? Milk, sugar?"
"I'll do it myself," he answered, bending forward.
He had his tea in silence; she munched on a light, flaky pastry Okon and Omasu had designated as refreshments early in the evening. He assumed she wasn't partial to tea, or at least not the English version of it. He'd only had Japanese green tea once, and had quite liked it, but he was never going to tell his father that … and his father was the only one who had stashes of it somewhere …
She looked like Misao again. He watched her from over the rim of his teacup, trying to keep his eyes shuttered, clamping down on the joy he felt from the thin braid falling down her back – apparently she'd gone upstairs and redone her hair – from the haphazard locks of hair falling all around her face. She didn't look small and pinched anymore – well, small, always, but not pinched, not restricted, shoved into a role that wasn't hers … He half wanted to smile at her, wanted to tell her to be like this, always, reassure her that he liked this, that as much as he had hoped for – trained her, in fact, to eat and sit and walk properly, this was the Misao he liked.
But he didn't. Because he just didn't say things like that.
"Are you done, Aoshi-sama? I need to take the cups back to Okon – she wants to soak all the dishes so that Tsubame can wash them in the morning – "
"Yes, thank you," he said, and he watched her pick up the tray and leave, the long dress, not bustled as the fashion was, swishing as she walked.
She was back in only a couple of minutes, holding up the skirt of her dress for better movement. She came and stood in front of him, right between him and the fireplace, making the room just that much darker, and then she spun. Twirled, let the dress flair out around her as her braid whipped in a circle and her feet flew, and she spun and she spun and she asked, "So what did you think? How did I look?"
He didn't know how to answer that. What had he thought? He'd thought she'd done remarkably well, thought she'd looked insipid and un-Misao-like, thought he never wanted to see her at a proper party again. He'd thought that he was so lucky to have her there, to be able to talk to someone without having to pretend. He had thought that he wanted to see the girl who'd dumped snow over his carpet.
But now … God, now, he had no idea. Because now she was different. Glowing, spinning, the deep colour of the dress even darker in the dimly-lit room, the braid slipping across her shoulders, she was … Misao. And not Misao. She was a woman, with those pretty curves and dips in her skin, and that absolute lack of restraint that he had yet to find in anyone else. And she was Misao, who he liked otherwise, as well, who he liked as a person, who talked to him and came to him and made his world different. And he just couldn't decide who this twirling, pirouetting girl was.
She'd stopped now, looking at him with just that tiny bit of doubt in her eyes. What did she doubt? Herself, or him? "All right, if I told you that you looked really good, would you tell me that I did, too?"
He had to reply. "You looked nice, Misao."
"And so did you, Aoshi-sama," she grinned back.
He wondered what it would be like to reach out, to feel all that skin pressed against him, to have her on his lap, legs around his waist … and he looked up at her, as she stood there, not two feet from him, just that slightest bit of red in her cheeks, firelight glinting golden off her collarbones, sharp and delicate, blue-green eyes smiling, and he thought … he thought she wouldn't mind.
He didn't know what made him think that, even for the tiny fleeting moment that that thought lasted, but he thought it all the same. That if he reached for her, now, she would blink, and be apprehensive, but she wouldn't pull away, she would let him … do what he wanted … because she … He didn't know. He didn't know why he would believe that, but he had, for that one moment where he'd looked into her eyes and had seen what he had wanted to see.
It had to be that. He had seen it because he wanted to see it. It wasn't there. It couldn't be. It made no sense.
The reality of the situation, as always, hit him a little late. Here he was, fully grown and – wanting – and there she was, young girl, smiling at him because she knew no better, because she didn't know how he would take it … or did she? Because she was still standing there, looking back at him with a curious expression on her face, and her skin was still golden in the light and there was this little lock of hair that was plastered across her cheek, and he wished …
It seemed as if it had been hours before she spoke, and he wasn't sure if it hadn't been. "And how about the rest of it? How'd I do?"
"Quite well, even though the water on my leg would indicate otherwise," he responded automatically, and if he had been thinking he would just have said 'quite well'. But he wasn't thinking, and he wasn't sure if she was, either, because she wasn't backing away, and she should, she was much too close, and the dress brought out her eyes far too well … and she was too young, only seventeen – not even that, yet – and why did he let his thoughts get so far?
She laughed, and said something, and he responded, and then she said something again, and once more he answered, and he had no idea what he said or what she said, and then she was leaving, still smiling, still holding up her dress as she left.
And he sat there, staring into the fire and wishing it was as blank as it had been before she'd come in, when the changes in his thoughts hadn't been as acute as they suddenly were … Sat there, hands resting on the arms of the chair, palms scratching the silky surface of the upholstering, and imagining that feeling of imminent doom pressing him into his seat, suffocating him, inevitable, unavoidable.
Because if he let himself believe that she would … that she thought … he didn't think he would last very long. Forget about not admitting his own thoughts, his own fears – there was no getting around it now, not after having taken it so far, having seen her like that, woman and Misao all in one in that evil, evil dress … but to let himself actually entertain the thought that she might think … that she might want …
He put his head back against the backrest of the chair, rolling his neck against the cushioning to smooth out the knots in his muscles. The walls and ceiling mocked him, laughed at him, and he had an urge to chuckle himself. He thought of that little – imagined! – spark in her eyes, and shuddered, and wished … and knew. Knew that his fate was written for him, the way fate was written for moths fluttering towards a flame. Knew that this was all wrong, because he didn't want her and he didn't need her, he didn't need anybody, he had needed his mother and she had left –
He wondered if this was how his mother had felt. About his father. Felt the inevitability, the horror, the … loveliness … of it all.
That was impossible. No one could have felt that way about his father.
Just like Misao couldn't feel that way about him.
But he looked up at the ceiling, and thought, and knew that he wouldn't make it. He would – he very well could – if he knew that the thoughts he nursed were useless and broken, thoughts that meant nothing and would come to nothing, but if she … if she actually …
He shook his head, sharply. Conjecturing on nothing but a look, a flash of – something –
The walls laughed at him, and the air pressed down on him. Impending doom indeed.
~*~