Blue, or ultramarine.
"Is that your favourite colour?" Mikiya asks her one day.
"What?"
"Your kimono." He lets his eyes shift carefully about her torso. It's a stone blue, not vibrant, but silken. She's standing by the window, water bottle in prosthetic hand, and sunlight is sifting through just right to turn a lock of her hair auburn. He continues, "How many do you have of that colour?"
"Seven," replies Shiki, as if it were obvious.
He snickers a little. "Weren't you complaining about me always wearing the same kind of thing, just the other day?"
"Shut up. At least I have other colours."
"And you wear them?"
She looks at him levelly. "I wear them. When the occasion calls for it."
"Okay, then."
"You're so nosy." She drinks deep from the bottle. Mikiya can tell she's acting put out when she actually isn't. "By the way, I don't have a favourite colour."
"Well, that blue suits you," he says, and he means it. "The red jacket, too."
He expects her to turn away, to ignore his words and look sullenly out the window, but she raises her eyebrows slightly and purses her lips in thought. She stares at him as if to study his face while her new arm absently swirls around the water in the bottle. Uneasy, he breaks his gaze away first.
"Actually, I think I have a favourite colour," she says at last, slyly, "but I'm not telling you."
"Oh, come on," he laughs. Sweat has gathered in his palms.