CHAPTER SIX

篭の鳥

Kago no Tori

When I was eleven, I had acted out in class. I forget the exact details of what, precisely, I did—probably something very hilarious—but regardless, Sanjō-sensei finally put her foot down. "Mashiro," she barked, voice making the desks shake, "Up front."

I toddled to the front of the classroom on my short noodle legs.

"Hand, please."

I held it out, haughtily. Sanjō took the rattan cane from where it normally sat undisturbed in the corner of the classroom, and gestured for me to come closer. Then she briskly slapped my open palm with the rod, three times.

The first whack hurt, but bearably. It felt exactly as I had expected. The second whack stung on already-irritated flesh. The third whack burned, making my fingers twitch in vain. Although I had struggled to keep my face impassive, my eyelids couldn't help but flutter with pain. Afterwards, angry red marks lingered on my hand for the next hour.

This was worse.

The hits were a steady rhythm against my back, like rain on a roof, a mallet on a drum-skin, biting wood on the flesh of a peach. As my flesh smarted and burned, I began to play a game with myself. If I focused enough on the pain wracking my body—localized and compartmentalized it to a sole area—the sensation grew distant and easily dealt with. I treated the constant thuds of pain on my back as if it was an earthquake occurring far away from my urban center. I was still getting beaten; I could still feel it, but it was no longer registering clearly in my mind. It was, perhaps, the only thing keeping me calm. I tried to keep myself in this state, fists clenched, face frozen.


An hour prior, I had found myself seiza-ing in Fujisaki's sodding office. The other side of the desk was lacking its usual reptilian inhabitant, although I was not alone; Amu's leg pressed against mine, trembling profusely. She had never gotten in trouble before, never mind beaten. She must have been terrified.

Well, this was exactly what we deserved, if I was being fair to myself. We had snuck out, broken school rules. To all who didn't know the truth, it must have looked uncannily as if we were running away to catch a train, or something else excessively stupid.

All the same, I had only been caned once—and that was only three times, on the hand. By Fujisaki-sensei's foreboding voice, this was not going to be a metaphorical slap on the wrist.

We had been instructed by a livid Sanjō-sensei not to talk. She then dragged Utau away by the ear, face full of bitter disappointment. It was common knowledge within the school that Sanjō-sensei was fond of Hoshina-san, regarding her as a protégé of sorts. Perhaps that's why it sounded as if Utau was getting beaten especially long and hard. The cracking of the cane was audible over the muffled, scratchy sounds of a female singer crooning a ballad from the gramophone. I wondered if this was how military prisoners felt: trapped in the semidarkness, nothing but the sound of their shrieking comrades for company, forced to listen to the vocal equivalent of the electric saw. What kind of eccentric woman was Fujisaki-sensei, to listen to enka music at one in the morning? Perhaps she had purposefully turned it on for us.

I allowed my eyes to wander – anything to take my mind off Utau's muffled scoffs of pain. Fujisaki-sensei's desk was strewn with thin sheaves of rice paper and a now-cold cup of tea, a brush resting on its wooden stand as if placed there hurriedly. Had she been pulled away to deal with us while she was still writing letters?

Well, I thought grimly, it wouldn't be the last letter she wrote. We had been informed by the dragon herself that our parents were being notified. What exactly the letters would contain was anybody's guess. None of us breathed a word about Ikuto—neither teacher had bothered to ask, focused more on the crime than the motive. It left me to conclude that very soon, my mother would be getting a letter going something along the lines of this:

Dear the miss unmarried Mashiro-sama,

Late spring brings warm days and cold nights. Like the spring morning dew, it is with a heavy and cold heart that I must bring you bad news so close to summertime.

Your beloved only daughter was caught returning to school after a joyous night wandering the countryside aimlessly, in the company of friends who shall remain nameless for their own personal safety. They were not, however, running away in any capacity. I can only presume that they were drinking and revelling in the company of construction workers, for I have little grasp of motivations that are not my own.

I pray to Ukemochi-no-kami that you shall take care of this matter. A woman's virtuousness begins at the mother's breast, or something. I apologize again for this tragic news.

Fujisaki Satsuhakibakigakikko

(some over elaborate flower stamp, probably.)

Wood clacked, and the screen slid open over by Fujisaki-sensei's desk. Utau was shoved through it, eyes dark and rebellious. Her blouse was clutched to her chest, wearing nothing but her brassiere, bangs sticking to her forehead.

"This is my punishment for letting you escape, too, you know," Sanjō gasped for breath. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and her glasses were sliding off her nose. "To stay up and beat you all within an inch of your lives instead of returning to my warm bed."

I had a thousand snide comments to make about this, all left unspoken. Instead, I said the first thing that came to mind. "Where's Nadeshiko?"

Nagihiko had vanished on the way to Fujisaki-sensei's office, wordlessly beckoned away from us and down a different corridor in his mother's wake. Utau or Amu might have been foolish enough to think Nadeshiko exempt from punishment: I knew better.

"Fujisaki-san answers only to the headmistress," Sanjō said grimly. "I can assure you that her punishment is likely worse than all three of yours combined."

Well, that was reassuring.

"Alright, Mashiro." Having caught her breath, Sanjō straightened up, fixing me with a stare. "You'll be next. Hoshina, kindly put your blouse back on and return to your room."

Utau turned away from us to slide the screen door open. As she did, we could all see her bare back was dotted all over with ugly purple bruises. There were red oozes of blood on her shoulder blades, where repetitive pressure had broken the skin.

I heard Amu gasp softly; I stiffened. Would my back also bleed and bruise when it was hit? Sanjō-sensei already looked exhausted; surely she wouldn't be able to beat me as hard as she had beaten Utau. I was suddenly fiercely grateful that Amu was going last, and would thus bear the weakest blows.

"Sometime this week, if you please, Mashiro," Sanjō added, curtly.

I longed to reassure Amu that somehow, it would be fine, but I could not bring myself to speak up in Fujisaki-sensei's office. Although the headmistress was absent in body, I felt her eyes all over the walls, watching us like little rustling insects. So instead, I followed Sanjō outside stoically, stomach in knots.

The screen in the back corner of Fujisaki-sensei's office opened out to a beautiful inner courtyard, walled in on all sides by the low wooden sides of the school hallways. The cool air hit my face in a rush, and I heard the muffled clunk of a bamboo spout, knocking against its stand as it filled with water. There was nothing but stone under my feet. By day, it must have been a beautiful garden of some kind. By night, it looked like the kind of creepy place where someone would hang himself.

Sanjō gestured to the ground, sounding more weary than anything. I dropped into the now-familiar seiza position onto the flagstones, staring at the lit stone lantern directly ahead of me. I was determined not to cry out as Utau had, in case Fujisaki-sensei or—god forbid, Nagihiko— was listening from somewhere else.

In Sanjo-sensei's pale hand, she clutched the infamous rod that normally sat in the corner her classroom. To the superficial eye, the cane may have looked like bamboo, but most people knew it to be rattan. Rattan, like bamboo, had a sort of yellowish blocky look to it. Unlike bamboo, rattan is solid all the way through. This cane in question was only a single stalk, for which we ought to have been grateful; at the judicial level, it was several bound together, and they drew blood.

So focused was I on the fascinating history of the Calameae genus that the first hit came unexpectedly. I locked in a shocked squeal. Would bracing my knees and stiffening my back would do anything against the next one, or was it better to be pliant, yielding? I tensed up against the stone, elbows locked into place.

Two. My knees buckled, and I grimaced. It made no difference.

The first hit had shocked me with how much it hurt, but now they were losing momentum. It seemed as if I was right—she had tired herself out on Utau, who Sanjō knew was the primary culprit and deserved the strongest beating. Next in order of culpability was I, for having a criminal record. Last would be Amu, who, as always, was so sweet and blameless.

I closed my eyes, waiting for another searing hit.

It did not come. Instead, I heard the distinct sound of delicate, tiny butterfly steps on stone. My heart thudded against my ribcage like a terrified bird. The only one who walked with such measured steps was Fujisaki-sensei. I dared not turn around to confirm my suspicions.

"Yukari-san, you may return inside and send Hinamori-san back to her room," her voice lilted on the wind like flower petals. "I will take it from here."

Sanjō was a practical woman, and knew when not to argue. I heard her sound of assent and the fading footsteps. The door slid shut, and a little bit of tension drained from my aching shoulders. Poor Amu would have no idea what on earth was happening, being sent back without me, but she would do so without question. I felt no bitterness at her exclusion from this twisted punishment.

Curiosity finally getting the better of me, I craned my neck over my shoulder. Nadeshiko stood next to her mother in disgrace, face the stark colour of fallen snow. She turned to look at me, but it was Nagihiko who met my eyes through the holes of the mask, pleading. You're in trouble, his face seemed to say with a grimace, and I'm in trouble.

His worry had the adverse effect of calming me and steeling my momentary panic. I hardened my gaze, and subtly nodded. So be it, I told him silently, looking haughty and unshakable.

What Fujisaki-sensei said next severely impacted by ability to look haughty and unshakable.

"Pick up the cane, Nagihiko."

Clunk, clunk.

The bamboo spout behind us filled with water, emptied, and sprung back up again.

He was going to beat me.

I did not want to admit that my own pride had caused me to step directly into this trap. I'm coming with you, I had whined, fancying myself intelligent—but had it not been from a good place? The fool would have been lost without me. It was not my fault that we were both being punished, played off against each other like chess pieces. It was the fault of our headmistress.

Nagihiko did not move to pick up the cane. We both stared at her instead, like stubborn horses.

Nagihiko's mother then seemed to sense that she'd have more luck appealing to me; she turned in my direction, tucking a wisp of her still-black hair behind a marble ear in a very stern voice. "Mashiro-san, I thought we had an understanding. The understanding was that upon being let into a confidential secret, you would not lead my son into more risk and rule-breaking. I thought you were the prudent one… a pity."

My mother is very skilled at commissioning a hut and then demanding a castle, Nagihiko had said, once, the picture of grace. Now he was every bit ragged chivalry, voice rough and masculine. "Mother, please, it was m-

His sentence broke halfway. In a swift and graceful motion, Fujisaki-sensei slapped Nagihiko hard across the jaw. Her kimono sleeve drifted in its wake like a dream.

"Hold your tongue." Her voice was a cold blade left out in the winter air. "You are both equally accountable for your own actions, and will be punished accordingly. Pick up the cane, Nagihiko. I will not ask again."

Although the entire side of his face was slapped red, he straightened up, long hair settling back into place as if it was never ruffled. He picked up the cane.

"I hope you know that this hurts me more than it hurts you," Fujisaki-sensei said, once again serene. "Hit until I tell you to stop."

I think this is going to hurt me more than either of you, I wanted to say snidely. But when I looked up at Nagihiko, suddenly I wasn't so sure. His wild eyes reflected the light like a wolf's. His face, so unusually readable, contained nothing but paralyzed horror and disbelief.

I mentally kicked myself for being so self-absorbed, remembering all at once that Nadeshiko did not have many friends. Was it because Fujisaki-sensei forced her to beat them all? I stared at Fujisaki, locking my jaw. I would not give her the satisfaction of burning my shaky bridge with Nagihiko over something as petty as getting whipped to death.

"Go ahead," I said.

There were a million apologies in his eyes when he brought the cane down on my shoulder, a soft sound. I could have cried; he went for an area left untouched, and the force was negligible to me, feathery touches compared to Sanjō's. I felt a sick, swooping rush of affection.

"This is not a child's game, Nagihiko. Hit harder," Fujisaki-sensei said, through gritted teeth.

I felt a lurch of foreboding. Of course she wouldn't allow him to go easy on me; this was mostly a punishment for him, after all. I dared not turn around for fear of repercussion, but I did subtly push my shoulders back. This was a clear situation in which nothing could be helped—the best he could do was shred me up and then pray I was intact at the end. And come up with a metaphor that wasn't so poor.

All this I knew. Yet, Nagihiko's second hit connected with shocking strength. I forgot how strong he actually was.

"Eurgh!" I squeaked before I could stop myself, more from surprise than anything. I heard the cane clatter to the ground. "Mother, please!" Nagihiko pleaded loudly.

"Oh, for Heaven's sakes, Nagihiko." Fujisaki-sensei replied, bored. "You've done worse before. The faster you do it, the faster it will be over."

She was right. I gave Nagihiko a grim look over my shoulder, my mother's trademark Rima-you'd-better-do-as-I-say-or-I-will-make-a-nasty-sour-face stare. Who's the woman now, Nagihiko? I wanted to snarl, throat full of bitterness. Too weak to strike a schoolgirl?

My feeble thoughts sounded horrifying, even to the cavernous echo of my own head. If anything, it only made him more maddeningly like a gentleman; but this was hardly the place to defer to the fairer sex.

I heard the rattan cane whistle defiantly through the air, and the rush of the wind parting for Nagihiko's hands—I glowered to myself, steeling myself for the invariably painful hit that would follow.

When it hit, I was rather impressed with myself; I had anticipated worse, so what connected barely seem to hurt at all. He hit in an interesting manner; different from Sanjō's, something I couldn't put my finger on. I stayed absolutely still and channelled a rock for three more beats.

Three. Four. Five. The hits hurt—a little more than the first one, but not by much. Yet, I could feel the rattan canes whistling through the air as if at extremely high speeds.

I realized, all at once, that clever Nagihiko was taking advantage of having his back to his mother. He brought down the cane through the air at high speed, making it look as if he was going to connect with my back with all the momentum behind him, before greatly slowing down just before it hit my skin. Executing such a thing was not for the weak of… arms. I felt some grudging admiration.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve. My determination only wavered when I felt something hot and sticky worm its way down my back, a sickly saccharine trail. The rattan cane came down for the twenty billionth time, squelching on wet fabric, and I cringed hard enough to send a shudder through my body.

The smell of iron slunk dizzyingly through the air. Immediately, the cane dropped. The sight of blood was evidently enough to make Nagihiko lose his nerve. "Rima, you're bleeding," he whispered in horror.

The blissful reprieve of Fujisaki-sensei's voice sang on the wind. "Very well, then, Mashiro-san. You may go."

I didn't need to be told twice, but my body had other ideas. My back felt as if it had been rent to shreds. I was quite sure the wounds on my back would split into gashes, like runs in a nylon stocking, if I so much as moved a shoulder. Nevertheless, legs knocking together, I rose to my feet.

Nagihiko dove forward to grab my elbow, eyes brimming with worry. Fujisaki-sensei raised a gentle hand, watching us like a lady might regard a mated pair of Mandarin ducks with amusement. "That's quite enough, Nagihiko. If you don't mind, I'd like you to stay behind so that we may have a little chat."

I was ever-conscious of how Fujisaki-sensei talked to her son like he was an employee in a company firm. My resentment for her quadrupled. First she makes Nagihiko beat me within an inch of my life, and now I was to be deprived of his presence for God knows how much longer? All I wanted to do was get to the safety of my dormitory room, where I could rinse the blood off my back, sit down on my bed and perhaps have a good long talk with Nagihiko about what both of witnessed with Utau. Instead, I found myself walking back alone, back stinging, through the dark wooden hallways.


I leaned over the sink in my dormitory to inspect the damage, struggling to undo my nightgown buttons from the back. My shoulder joints were impossibly stiff, and my arms refused to bend backwards; I hopped up and down on the spot, trying to gently wrench a space open. This was how Nagihiko found me when he walked in some time later, bouncing around in a circle like a possessed jack-in-the-box.

"That was fast," I said shortly.

"Yes, I was not kept long," he said, tilting his head demurely. "Do you…?"

Do I what? I stopped my hopping to stare over my shoulder at him. He was carrying a bowl of steaming water in his thin hands, and looked like a wreck.

"You look like a wreck," I said, although it was lacking its normal satisfaction.

"So do you." Nagihiko pointed at me with his chin, grimacing.

I looked up at the round mirror over the sink, and almost recoiled. My eyelids were red-rimmed, as if I'd been crying, and the bruises under my eyes were enormous and practically the colour of Nadeshiko's hair. I took a stumbling step back, almost hitting the bathroom door.

"Careful, careful!" said Nagihiko quickly, narrowly missing spilling water everywhere. "Sit down. I can undo do that for you."

Undo what? I looked from my half-undone nightgown buttons to Nagihiko's face in a very slow, outraged motion.

He made a face at me, as if being concerned for my own modesty was irreparably childish. "Oh, come now, Rima, do you honestly believe I'm going to eye you up like a construction worker?"

"Yes," I said, not even bothering to think about it. "Who wouldn't? I'm stunning."

"Let's not forget modest. If I wanted to peek like a low-class thief, I would have done it months ago." He made a wry face at me, overridden with remorse. "The least I can do is get the blood off you, you know. You'll want that cleaned, and—well, after all, it was my… faul…"

I knew this was coming; God forbid we just sweep it under the carpet.

"Only an idiot would try to blame himself," I interrupted, disapprovingly. "Sanjō-sensei hits harder than you do when she's sleep-deprived."

Nagihiko did not smile. "At least let me wash it off."

"If you think I'll let a boy undress me, your head must be emptier than I thought." I crossed my arms, stubbornly. "Nadeshiko."

"Eh?" he responded in a puzzled lilt. Even so, his voice ended on a high pitch by reflex.

"Nadeshiko-san," I elaborated firmly. "I want Nadeshiko to do it."

He stared at me for a moment as if I had said something… well, I don't quite know what. I wondered what I was playing at by asking such a thing. Nadeshiko or not, he was still a man, and a man was still decidedly not supposed to be looking at a woman's bare back. Then again, he was not supposed to be rooming with one, either…

Nagihiko slowly sat down on his bed, patting the spot beside him with the shyness of a newlywed wife.

"Very well, then," she said, gently, flowers blooming in her words. "Sit down, Rima-chan, before I murder you."

Slightly more comforted, I moved between the two beds to sat down on the other side of Nagihiko's mattress. Nadeshiko, pleased at getting her spaniel to sit, undid the buttons with fast and clever fingers. "You've got a bloodstains on this, I'm sorry," she murmured. "I really tried not to…"

"Well, I was trying to take it off to rinse the blood out," I replied huffily. "No need to fuss. It'll come out fine with cold water and salt."

Nadeshiko combed hair away from my neck, fingernails grazing skin as she pulled my mass of curls over a shoulder. "… Is that so?"

I had forgotten, so quickly, that she wasn't a girl.

"You can take my word for it. Women wash blood out of their clothes quite a bit, you know," I pointed out with the subtlety of a blunt knife.

"Ah. I forgot." Nadeshiko left it there. As she peeled my nightgown open, I shuddered a little.

"Sorry, does it hurt?" she whispered, right in my ear. Her breath tickled my cheek and the hairs at the back of my neck stood straight up. Christ! Stop that!

"Not much," I lied. I would have happily dived headfirst into Edo Bay than confess it wasn't a shudder of pain.

"Well, it shouldn't," she said, trying to comfort me. "There's only two, three shallow cuts here. It's not as bad as it must feel– the pain is from the bruising."

"You sound like you know a lot about getting beaten with a stick."

I could practically feel Nadeshiko's face darken, and I was heartily sorry I mentioned it. She put the warm cloth on my back, and tension immediately began to drain from my muscles.

"Old dancing families like ours can be a little bit old-fashioned." That was an understatement. "Your mother hasn't ever hit you, Rima-chan?"

"No," I said, although I wondered if this answer qualified—my mother was often absent, so discipline was less non-corporal and more non-existent. I craned my head over my shoulder, only to make a pained face as I felt my skin stretch across a cut. Nadeshiko whapped the side of my cheek with the back of her wet hand, sternly. "Don't move."

"I wasn't–"

"You were!" She scolded me like a hen, unscrewing a glass jar I hadn't seen her carrying.

I eyed it warily, distracted by the shiny object. "What is that?"

"Hit wine."

I remembered the taste of sake from the cherry blossom viewing, and my wariness amplified. "I don't drink alcohol."

"Ah, excuse me. Not for drinking. It's diē dǎ jiǔ." Her voice stumbled over Chinese tones, and I snorted.

"You mustn't snort." She tipped some of the jar's contents into her hand, sternly. "It's an age-old family secret, given to us from the white hands of Toyotama-hime herself, who came to us in the form of a turtle and told the founder of our clan, Fujiwara-no-Saki, that it would cure any–"

"Do you expect me to believe this, or do you just like telling lies?" I demanded, wincing at the way it burned on my skin. She laughed, a low and sultry noise unfamiliar to the tinkling of bells I was so used to hearing. "Both, of course. Why can't you be gullible and believe it?"

"Because I've got a brain." Her hands spread out over my back, and I bristled like a cat being petted the wrong way. "What are you doing?"

"What d'you think, that I'm trying to grope you through your spine?" That was Nagihiko. I glowered, and Nadeshiko smiled winningly back at me. "It's supposed to be rubbed in."

"You spend most of your life rubbing it in," I grumbled audibly. If Nadeshiko heard, she gave no indication as such; she was too intent on digging her pointy fingers into my skin. Gradually, the sensation faded from painful to almost pleasurable; I wondered if Nadeshiko knew this, but decided quickly I wasn't going to breathe a word.

"Rima-chan?"

"Yes?" I choked, through a haze of being touched by a pretty girl. Her fingers caressed my side.

"I was wondering… did you understand what all that was about earlier? With Hoshina-san, I mean."

"To what are you specifically referring?" I asked drolly, pushing my shoulders against Nadeshiko's hands and arching back like a pleased cat.

"There was some talk of companies… I'm afraid it was quite lost on me. Did you understand?" Nadeshiko stifled a pretty little yawn behind her sleeve.

"Of course I diiid," I yawned back, tears in my eyes. I turned around to look out the window, where it was still pitch black outside. "… It's quite late. Are you not tired?"

I could not believe that it was still the same day; that in less than five hours, I had snuck out, fought and forgotten a feud, met a dodgy geezer in a forest, enabled a not-really-escape, been corporal punished, and—what—now this?

"I don't believe I could sleep if I tried." Nadeshiko's voice was weary. "The worst you could do was bore me to slumber."

"Or myself, maybe," I remarked dryly. I got to my feet, holding the back of my bloodied nightgown up. "Let me get out of this, at least."

"Of course." She sat down on the bed and crossed her legs under her, smiling expectantly at me.

About to pull an arm out of its sleeve, I stared suspiciously. "Do you mind?"

She shook her head, brightly. "Not at all!"

Once again, I had forgotten that she was a boy. With a soft hmph, I flounced behind the painted screen set up in the corner. What a lech!

As I pulled on another nightgown almost identical in construction to the previous one behind the screen, I heard Nadeshiko ask, "Goodness gracious, how many silk nightgowns do you have?"

I stuck my head out, looking down at myself. The only subtle difference was that this one was made of more yellowy silk, and had a modern V-neck instead of a buttoned collar. "I brought four nightgowns with me, if that's what you're asking."

"So, all of them?" Nadeshiko seemed oblivious to the concept of nosiness. "I noticed that all your blouses are silk, too."

"Well, yes," I said, matter-of-factly. I gathered the nightgown in my hands and padded into the washroom to rinse the bloodstain, taking a few minutes to realize that she wanted a more thorough answer. Leaving the stain to soak, I flopped onto my bed, facing Nadeshiko. "My family works in silk manufacturing, so I daresay we tend to often have yards of it in abundant supply."

"Ah. So Rima-chan was born into a business family."

"That is correct. So was Hoshina-san." It suddenly occurred to me that Tokyo lived in its own little business-savvy bubble, away from the relaxed attitude of rural areas. Utau, Amu and I were all from the city, although Amu herself lived in middle-class oblivion to the comings and goings of the business world. "… Do you really not know any of this?" I added, bewilderedly.

"Of course not," Nadeshiko laughed as though it was silly for me to even ask. "I was born in Hiroshima. I can count the amount of times I've been into Tokyo on one hand. Father hates the Kantō region."

"Hates it? For what reason?" I demanded, a bit offended. I forgot my earlier curiosity at the elusive Fujisaki patriarch and thought only of my love for Ginza—the crunching of car wheels on cobblestones, the glint of white parasols, and the imposing cloud-grey pillared buildings that looked all the world like something from a European fairy tale.

"Too many philistines. Tokyoites don't appreciate culture, he says, only gag plays." Touché. Nagihiko smiled at me knowingly. "You two would like each other, I think."

"It does not sound like it," I murmured, shifting uncomfortably. Normally I'd pull my knees to my chest, but with my back this was out of the question. "So… the Hoshinas."

"Yes. I'm listening."

"This is all gossip, mind you. You didn't hear it from me."

"Not a word."

"Right," I began. I was laconic by nature; long explanations were Nadeshiko's element, not mine. Yet, she smiled kindly at me in a way that helped me form the words to elucidate. "The Hoshina family runs one of the biggest financial cliques in Japan, one of the zaibatsu. A financial clique is… not unlike a school clique, I suppose."

Nagihiko smiled a little bit at this, amused. "I take it comes with all the bickering and games of schoolgirls?"

"You would be correct." I nodded. This was a quick and easy metaphor to assist me. "A clique is a sort of business conglomerate. A zaibatsu, first and foremost, will almost always own a bank. You can think of the bank as the second-in-command, the arm through which the zaibatsu does its dealings. With that money, the financial clique can then begin to invest in different types of industry."

"Is your family's business owned by a zaibatsu?" Nagihiko asked, shrewdly.

I nodded in assent. "Of sorts, yes. Our investor is not the Hoshina family, however." Thank goodness, because that would make our friendship excessively awkward.

Nagihiko looked as if he wanted to investigate further into this, something I wanted to dissuade. We might have been friends, but we were still not friendly enough for me to explain the very un-nationalistic circumstances under which my family operated. I hastily continued.

"That's what a financial clique does with their money. It invests, to get more money." I was trying to explain this as simply as I can, using child's vocabulary. With furrowed brow, I mimed a pie slice. "They buy a little chunk of a company, which is called a share. When a financial clique buys a share, they own a little bit of the company… which means they get a little bit of the money it makes…"

"I'm following." He smiled, encouragingly. Quite remarkably, he did not look remotely sleepy.

"But owning a share means many other things. If you buy enough stock— that's just the plural of share, don't give me that face—you own the company, in a way. You've put so much money into the business that you can dictate what they do, and the company has to consult you for everything. When you get to this point, you are considered a shareholder, and placed on a Board of Directors. That way, all the people who own loads of stock can all get together and argue about what they want the business to do."

"So you're saying that Hoshina-san owns… stock? In her own parent's company? How does that work?"

"I was getting there." I grimaced. "Financial cliques are family-owned, and passed down father to son."

There was a flicker of dawning comprehension.

"From here, it's stuff and speculation, but… I think it's likely that children in zaibatsu families are given shares as children. That way, they can start accumulating money from a very young age, and can survive off the fortune for the rest of their life. But it also means that they're technically on the Board of Directors, because they own a big part of the company. I think this is likely the case with Utau and Ikuto-san."

I could practically hear the whirring of Nagihiko's brain working a mile a minute. "She spoke of people trying to get her to sell her shares back to the company, though. Why would someone want her to do that?"

"Well." I gave Nagihiko a look to indicate that this was a whole other explanation. He stared back. "The Hoshina family was a… special case. They didn't have any boys to inherit the company; only a girl, Hoshina Souko-san. They decided the best way to solve this problem was to marry her off to the son of another wealthy financier. That way, their businesses could combine, and the corporation could get a man in the CEO's chair who knew what he was doing."

"I take it that plan did not go through?"

"No, it did not." I smiled, ruefully. "She eloped."

"Aha!" Nadeshiko clapped her hands. "I knew we'd get an elopement, one way or another!"

"A musician," I ploughed on, "A terribly poor one. You can imagine that he wasn't suited for the business world of Tokyo."

"Indeed."

"So, when her husband went missing, many supposed it was because she forced him into a world he didn't quite belong in. That he cracked under the pressure, or was having an affair, that sort of thing."

"What do you think?"

"It doesn't matter what I think," I said, dismissively.

"It matters to me," said Nagihiko patiently.

"I have no opinion on the issue," I said, firmly. "This was before we were born. But I can tell you what my mother thinks."

"Very well," Nagihiko's head lolled onto his shoulder, sleepily. "Tell me what Rima's mother thinks."

"She thinks he was killed. Assassinated, his body dumped in quicksand."

"Why, your mother sounds nearly as charming as you, Miss Mashiro."

"Oh, sod off," I replied huffily. "It's grim, to be sure, but it's likely considering what happened next—only a few months after his disappearance, Souko-san was married off again, this time to some old codger."

"Rima?"

"Yes?" I said, irritated on being interrupted halfway through my tirade for a second time.

Nagihiko stared across the room at me, eyes bright and serious. "… What on earth is an old codger?"

I opened and shut my mouth like an electrocuted carp, and paused. After a struggle to get words out, we simultaneously both burst out laughing.

"Ow! Ow!" I gasped. "Back! Stop it!"

"I'm not the one dropping silly words all over the place like a girl dropping handkerchiefs!" Nadeshiko shrieked, hurling a pillow at me. "Speak Japanese!"

"Maybe if you studied English more you'd understand me, Mr What-Colour-Is-Your-Bicycle!"

"It was a legitimate question!" she wheezed, burying her face in her sleeve. "Give me my pillow back!"

"Why, Miss Fujisaki, I believe I'll be keeping it!" I retorted.

At that moment, a muffled thud reverberated through the wall, almost like the sound of a broom handle whacking against it. Then, a voice through the thick layers of plaster: "Mashiro, if you don't stop shrieking, I'll cut off all your hair in your sleep!"

I crammed my fist in my mouth, snorting.

Nadeshiko giggled through her hands, taking several deep breaths. "Watarai Misaki-san is as energetic as ever, even when half-asleep, it seems. Oh, dear."

We both took a minute to stop giggling. Nadeshiko sat up on an elbow, smiling at me; very slowly and cautiously, I smiled back. It was excessively awkward, to sit there and exchange smiles with a reptile.

Then, out of nowhere, Nagihiko brushed his fringe out of his eyes, seriously. "I'm sorry."

I started. This was out of left field. I had almost forgotten the events of prior until he apologized, at which point I lidded my eyes a little haughtily. "Oh?"

"I was being a chauvinist gourd," Nagihiko leaned forward a little, earnestly. "You aren't only a girl. It was a foolish thing to say."

I looked up interestedly. "Did you just call yourself a gourd?"

"Rima, I'm trying to apologize," he added, weakly. "I suppose no matter how much I'm a girl by day, I can't help but unconsciously believe horrible things..."

"It's quite alright, you know." Quite flustered at this point, I tried to maintain a degree of light-heartedness. I didn't want to delve into this void. "You're right, I'm not a girl. I'm a goddess."

"Why do I even put up with you?" he asked wearily, rolling over with a smile.

"Because I'm a goddess."

"Goddesses don't dance like limp soybean spro-ooo-outs," he ended his sentence with a yawn, tears in his eyes. I raised an eyebrow.

"Is it bedtime for idiots already?"

"You're not done with your explanation," he reminded me, even though he closed his eyes as he spoke. "You have to finish."

"I'll explain the rest tomorrow," I said irritably, feeling drowsy myself. "It's not a bedtime story, for Heaven's sakes."

This only seemed to give him more ideas. "Once upon a tiiime, there lived a very sour-faced princess in the courts of the New Capital named Hoshina-no-kimi," came Nagihiko's sleepy singsong voice from under the covers. I tossed the pillow back at his head.

"She killed all her suitors and threw their bodies in quicksand—"

"Go to sleep!"