vi.
Toushirou delays the dressmaker for a week, justifying that the bruises should be completely gone by then, if not barely noticeable. Another week would do her some good, he hopes, Karin is still too thin and willowy, her shoulders pointed. Sometimes when he looks at her, it feels that the gentlest breeze could break her. Another week and Karin would regain a healthy pallor.
In the meantime, he keeps to himself in his study, writing letter after letter, when he has a moment to spare and not attend his noble duties.
He doesn't know what to do with Karin, even if she stumbled into his study, while she explores the manor. But instead, she alternates her time between the garden and the library, keeping to herself. If it's solitude that she wants, then she is welcome to it.
The sun treats her well, and often she spends crisp mornings in the garden, lost in her thoughts.
Shoes, Toushirou thinks absent-mindedly, reaching out for a sweetly fragranced letter, and rereads the prettily written words until it's imprinted in his mind. If she wished to explore the grounds, beyond the garden and the stables, then he must give her shoes.
He wants to take care of Karin, to help her as best as he can, but he wishes it was easier, somehow. He sighs, trying to banish the thought, but he can't, and he feels frustrated by it. He knows that she will never be the same, never be the princess that he remembers, brilliantly captured by roses and sunlight and laughter, he knows that. It's understandable that she'd be different to the point of being unrecognisable, aloof and reserved and scowling.
And yet.
He's not the only one growing frustrated by Karin. Kiyone found her bordering on unlikable, Hanatarou was intimidated by callousness, and Toushirou was quickly becoming tired of the way her remarks cut conversations short. The silence he didn't mind so much, and Karin wasn't one to speak much anyway.
Still, she could be pleasant enough sometimes, offering her opinion from time to time, and however blunt and cold she was, Toushirou was always under the impression that she was being honest. He appreciated that, at least.
Kiyone huffs. "It's like talking to Sentarou. How am I supposed to keep a smile on my face when she's being so unfriendly?"
"We don't know what she's being through." Toushirou reminds her, "I assume she doesn't want to talk about it either. Maybe all she needs is time."
"Time heals all wounds, is that what you're saying? More time, and she'll be less hostile?"
He shrugs. "Maybe."
"Or." Kiyone raises her eyebrow. "You could ask."
Something tells him that would be in vain.
"You do it."
"Fine. Maybe I will." Kiyone teases, and Toushirou grins, despite himself, if only briefly, and then dismisses Kiyone. He sends her off to find Hanatarou, and prays silently that he isn't sleeping in the stables again.
Dress first, and then shoes, Toushirou decides, making the decision to summon the shoemaker later. His first priority is to give Karin a less tawdry dress, something that will suit her when she is in good health.
He waits outside while Urahara attends to her, making measurements. He doesn't know what to do, but feels better acting as a sentinel, close at bay.
"Do you have a preferred colour?" He hears Urahara ask as the doors open, and both step outside, acknowledging him with a curt nod.
"Black."
"Black?" Toushirou echoes, surprised, unable to help himself, even if the answer wasn't directed at him. Of all colours, she chooses black. "Why black?"
Black is for widows and death, for melancholy and bittersweet loss.
Karin looks at him, face sombre, and regret quickly replaces his curiosity.
"I am no one." She says softly, so only he can hear. Suddenly, Toushirou recalls that black is also for the enigmatic and the unknown, the shadows left forgotten on walls, the identity that has been taken from her twice. Karin is neither slave nor princess.
He should protest—tell her she's wrong—she is someone important.
But the words wither away as her expression changes into something cold and she becomes frighteningly untouchable. "Remember that."