What, no glossary? Nah... you're smart, you'll figure it out. ^.^
And while I'm up here: Thank you, kind people, for the reviews. They keep me alive.
Mune no Monogatari
by Mirune Keishiko
Ten: Falling in Step
Contrary to her earlier expectations, almost a week passed before Megumi was at last able to leave Aizu. The ubiquitous little allergies and ailments of summer brought a daily deluge of patients, each of whom had to be properly checked, catalogued, and provided with medicine before they could be dismissed. Excessively frisky children were brought in frequently for sprained joints, broken limbs, bruised heads. River enthusiasts presented the occasional near drowning; those who came from the mountains suffered from snakebites and poisonous mushrooms. For Megumi as doctor, this meant hardly a moment's rest during her hours of practice; for her as administrative officer, this meant piles of paperwork that were as necessary to the smooth function of the hospital as they were incredibly dull.
She had to wait, as well, for the herbs and drugs she was stocking for the journey to Tokyo. Letters from Oguni-sensei arrived nearly everyday, growing ever grimmer with the news that scarlet fever was sweeping Yokohama—perilously close to the capital. With the prospect of supplies in Tokyo running thin in case of a real epidemic, Megumi was determined to bring her own medicine with her. Every spare moment was spent drying, grinding, boiling, steeping, straining, bottling, until Ayano complained that Megumi had stopped smelling like a rose garden and begun smelling like a pharmacist's storeroom instead.
At last, all was ready. The evening before her departure, Megumi retired early to run a bath and go to bed, knowing she would hardly sleep a wink in the cramped, noisy confines of a rumbling carriage.
Into the steaming waters of the furo she sank gratefully, savoring the rich fragrance that hung moist and heavy in the air from the drops of rose oil she had mixed with the water. A long hot bath at night was one of the few luxuries she permitted herself, and she doubted that she would have the time for it again if a crisis struck Tokyo.
Tokyo. She smiled to herself. She had not been to the city in two years; she had been busy building her new life, and she had also wished to avoid that place where so much had happened. But now she felt only excitement at returning to the dojo, checking on little Kenji's progress, visiting old patients who had since become her friends. Perhaps there was something to be said for time healing wounds.
Aoshi's revelation might have had something to do with that. Megumi's smile turned wistful.
The man apparently had the uncanny and often unsettling ability to perceive and report the truth. She had dismissed whole years of her life as one hellish ordeal after another best forgotten. But if she dared to believe his words—and she saw no reason for him to lie or even embellish—then perhaps he was right: If suffering had helped her become stronger, better, more mature, then denying it altogether would mean denying the person she had come to be; and perhaps choosing to forget all of it was a hasty, irrational decision that would ultimately cost her more than she could afford.
"Before your spirit, that of the Oniwabanshuu Okashira bows."
She sighed and splashed the water irritably—as though the sudden noise and movement would dispel the memory of his cool, quiet voice, the steady gaze of his eyes, the easy, gentle strength with which he had held her. But his face remained before her, scant inches from hers as she recalled it to have been. He had spoken almost reverently to her, and she had drunk it all in thirstily—no one outside her family had ever held her in that way before, or told her so intimately that she was admired, valued, respected; and she had surprised herself on that day with her own aching hunger, realized for the first time in the same moment that it was sated at last.
But it was Shinomori Aoshi who had spoken thus—she had reminded herself then, and reminded herself now. In any other man, perhaps, she could have imagined that feelings and thoughts went beyond those respectful words, and she might have dared to hope that she would never go hungry again.
But the cold, mirrorlike blue of those unwavering eyes had promised no such future. It had been this knowledge that had strengthened her then, enabled her to push him away, make some dismissive joke, and offer dinner as calmly as she could, and fill the rest of the evening with idle, irrelevant chatter that made it clear she considered that matter closed.
When they met again the next morning, she had wanted to pay her debts—she had wanted so badly to give him something in exchange for that moment's comfort he had given her, if she had to begin with a mere flower.
Although—barring truly bizarre coincidence—she would likely never see him again. The man was not the type to contact anyone for contact's sake. Smiling grimly to herself, Megumi shook her head, determined not to think of him for the rest of the night. And, if at all possible, the rest of her life.
A loud knock came from the front door.
Frowning in irritation, Megumi sank lower in the water until it tickled her nose. Perhaps if she didn't respond, whoever it was would just go away. And if it went away, then it couldn't be too important, could it?
When the knock was not repeated, she smiled to herself in satisfaction and dunked herself fully in the water, finding childish delight in blowing little bubbles to the surface.
"Megumi-san, is everything all right?"
Abruptly she sat up, splashing water everywhere, choking and sputtering—for the water had gone up her nose. "Damn it, Aoshi!" she shouted, wiping water from her eyes, which were tearing so painfully from the oil in the water that she didn't care that she had addressed him inappropriately. "Don't do that!"
He was not in the room. Clenching her fists, she glared at the small window set high in the wall. She could just picture him leaning against the wall outside, quietly enjoying her discomfort, amusement glinting in his eyes in his otherwise expressionless face the way they did sometimes when he looked at her—
"I'm sorry to have disturbed you. But there is urgent news, and you were not answering the door."
"I thought you were in Sendai." Megumi sighed. So much for the haze of blissful relaxation. Even the scent of roses in the air seemed cloying now. She reached for her towel. "I understand. I'll be out in a minute. I'm sure you can let yourself in," she said crisply.
There was no response. She sighed again and got regretfully out of the still-hot tub, wrapping herself in her towel. Distantly, she heard the front door slide open and shut. And he bothered knocking, she thought crossly, raising a hand to her heart that was still pounding—from the shock of it all, of course. Damn Shinomori and his stealth.
"You look pale," she said by way of greeting as she stepped into the common room. "I'll get you something to eat. What's wrong?"
He had not taken a seat, instead stood half in the shadows by the door as though impatient to leave. "You have been in correspondence with that doctor Oguni?"
At his taut, abrupt tone, Megumi stiffened. "The last I heard was of scarlet fever in Yokohama."
"It is in Tokyo now." Those calm blue eyes. "Ten died today."
She said nothing—a look was enough.
"The Kamiya dojo has also been afflicted."
She set down the kettle with suddenly nerveless hands. "Kenji—"
"—and Himura's wife. However, that is all I know." Those imperturbable eyes. "It is fortunate I decided to stop in Aizu before continuing on. The carriage waits for us outside."
Shaking her head dazedly, Megumi gathered her thin yukata about her, feeling suddenly chill. "If I go tonight, I won't be able to bring much. But the other medicines will be ready by dawn tomorrow, as I requested." She glanced at him, suddenly suspicious. "Aoshi-san, if there is an outbreak, Tokyo should be the last place for you to go."
He glanced away. Megumi paused, startled. She had never known him to be evasive—oblique, certainly, but never evasive.
"I have reason to believe Misao is also in Tokyo. If she visited the dojo as she would no doubt think of doing..."
Megumi turned away. There was a sudden cold, hollow feeling in her chest, and it confused and irritated her as it compounded the whirl in her head that told her too much was happening a little too fast.
"Scarlet fever is highly contagious, Aoshi-san."
"I had it as a child. Misao did not."
The certainty, the self-assurance in his cool tones allowed no room for challenge. Megumi shrugged.
"I suppose I could pull a few strings to get the medicines released this early." She drew a deep breath and blew it out slowly, tightened her hands into fists, willing the doctor in her to take over. Though an odd sadness and fear still gripped her heart, already her mind was running through the tasks to be done—clean, sharp, efficient. "I'll have to scrounge up a carriage for those too, at this ungodly hour. See to your driver, I'm sure he's famished. Help yourselves to what's in the cupboard. And you must make sure your horses can still make the trip—"
She caught herself too late and gritted her teeth, expecting an ice storm of pride to come her way at her unconscious temerity to give him orders—but he merely nodded and slid open the door, and had disappeared outside before she could speak again.
Of course, of course. Megumi smiled bitterly at her own idle thoughts. Of course, he was worried about Misao. Of course he would tolerate her audacity for now. Pride, in these circumstances, was inefficient.
Her mouth set resolutely, she went away into the house to change.
It was nearing midnight by the time the Sanadas' personal coachman arrived at the hospital to bring the carriage of medicines out of Aizu. From the shadows by the coach he had borrowed from an old friend in Sendai, Aoshi watched Megumi talk with the middle-aged couple, exchanging hugs and smiles of reassurance. When Sanada Aoi appeared to be asking curiously about Aoshi, Megumi's smile uncurved somewhat.
"He cares for someone in Tokyo very much, obasan. He's concerned she might also have been affected, that's all."
Why did her strange, cold smile disturb him so?
Then she finished her farewells and came near, and in the dull yellow light of the street lamp Aoshi noted how tired she looked. She went first to the carriage with the medicines, making sure the crates of precious bottles and jars were secured inside. Then—was she avoiding him? ignoring him?—she spoke in friendly fashion with Aoshi's coachman, introducing herself and asking whether he had eaten and drunk. When she had satisfied herself with his answers, she finally approached Aoshi where he stood waiting at the open doors.
"If you don't wish to stop during the ride, Aoshi-san, you must know where we can change horses along the way."
She raised clear eyes to his; her voice was clipped, professional. He remembered it well—he had walked her home that night from the ball, and spoken to her of duty. Of responsibility.
"You need not worry about that detail. I myself will take over from Sanada's man when he wearies."
He held out his hand to help her into the coach, but without so much as a glance at him she entered the carriage much more nimbly than he had thought possible in her kimono. Determinedly he fought the twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Megumi sank with evident pleasure into the butter-soft leather seating. "And your own coachman?"
"He will last a little longer. Kobayakawa is used to continuous driving over long distances."
He shut the doors. Ahead of them, Sanada's coachman Tsujimoto began to drive the medicine coach down the street that led out of town. Then their own carriage lurched into motion, the rumble of wheels and the clatter of hooves particularly cacophonous in the hush of the night.
As they gathered speed, lanterns flitting at them and away into the darkness, Megumi drew a deep, slow breath.
At Aoshi's glance, she exhaled and gave a small smile. "I've never liked being shut up in these compartments."
"Then I will open the windows."
"Thank you."
Nothing more was said for a long while. Both sat quietly, Megumi with her face and gaze fixed toward the windows, Aoshi choosing to conceal his own features in shadow as he watched her wordlessly.
Perhaps, if things had been different—if he had been different—he would have told her what unspeakable pleasure it was to see her again.
Then her cinnamon eyes were slipping shut, her head moving sharply as she fell asleep and awoke, slept and awoke. Shifting uncomfortably in her kimono, she glanced at him surreptitiously, as if wondering if he had caught her nodding off.
Those long-lashed eyes opened wide speedily enough, however, when he moved across the compartment to sit beside her. In the close confines, their bodies easily touched. Aoshi wondered if the unnatural heat in his face meant that he was blushing, and if she saw it amid the shifting shadows.
"I apologize. But it would not do to have you tired and sore upon your arrival, Megumi-san."
For a moment she stared up at him searchingly; then she lowered her gaze, smiled that strange, cold smile again, and nodded. "Of course, Aoshi-san."
And she laid her head on his shoulder so stiffly, so hesitantly, that he thought his old sadness had returned to clench around his heart. Her long unbound hair was still damp from her earlier bath and flooded his senses with the richness of roses. Through her yukata he was acutely aware of the warm softness of her body; and when she truly fell asleep, slumping against him with the full weight she had not let him bear while she was still awake, he choked on a sudden memory of pale, perfect skin in smooth planes and curves, glimpsed years ago on one of his more loathsome duties under Takeda Kanryuu.
He steeled himself against the recollection that was both unwelcome and all too welcome. Sighing, he shut his eyes and leaned back against the seat. He was tired, that was all. Rushing around Sendai, reawakening old bonds of loyalty and allegiance, then rattling around in the carriage on a full day's ride with nothing but the flurry of his thoughts and emotions to keep him occupied—even the peace of meditation had been attained only with a special effort.
As the night deepened and weariness settled on him like a heavy, stifling cloak, he decided to turn off his thoughts at last and rest. He would be waking in a few hours, after all, to take the reins himself. With the noise and motion of the fast-traveling carriage, it would be difficult enough to sleep without the constant hubbub in his mind.
As the movements of the coach jounced her body, Megumi muttered to herself in low, incoherent annoyance, settled more cozily against Aoshi's side. For a moment he froze as she burrowed against him, wrapped her arms around herself and nestled against his wool suit as though the late night chilled her.
Then—firmly ignoring the cold, persistent logic in his head—he placed his arms around her and guided her gently downward until she was lying down along the seat, knees bent awkwardly to fit her long legs into the compartment, her head pillowed on his rolled-up jacket in his lap. Because she still clutched at her yukata as if she were cold, he draped his old white coat over her, noting distantly that it failed to mask the sensuous curve of her slender body.
And because he had decided firmly to stop thinking for the rest of the night; because her face was shadowed by a faintly unhappy frown even in her sleep; because he who used words so sparingly now could find none to convey his joy at being with her again; because those priests so emphasized living purely in the present moment; because for these few moments he forgot entirely the girl who had sought him in Tokyo, for whose sake he had begun and still continued this long journey—he bent and kissed her.
Only briefly, only enough to stave off the darkest of his hunger—that was what he had planned, dimly; he had intended to merely touch his lips to hers. But quite unexpectedly she kissed him back, and he stayed, and he wished fleetingly that the present moment would never slide away into the past as it always did; and he felt then that if he was not yet in love with this brilliant woman, he was well on his way. And then her mouth fell away from his with a quiet sigh that teased his burning lips.
She slept on, almost but not quite smiling, lost now in pleasant dreams.
That was enough. He fell asleep with the scent of roses all around him.
~ tsuzuku ~
For once, this chapter, shockingly enough, contains no Author's Notes. Instead there is just the sound of very loud, very gleeful, slightly deranged-sounding sleep-deprived cackling, trailing far off into the wee hours of the night...