CHAPTER EIGHT

雨中

Uchū

The summer rainy season came on tidings of missing Japanese soldiers in Peking. Utau shook the newspaper open, like she had done every morning for the past month, and read the headline aloud.

"Sudden clash between the Japanese and Chinese armies in the northern outskirts of Peking. July seven—Yaya, would you get off me?"

If there was one person more interested in the news than Utau, it was Yaya. Every morning she waited for the latest gory headline with bated breath and fearful eyes.

She wasn't the only one. Since Father's letter, I had been unusually on-edge about international headlines, keeping a hawk eye out for any disturbances west of Honshu. So far, there had been only minor scuffles like this one, whispers of this and that, as father would say: nothing of remark.

"Is there anything about Taiwan, Utan?" Yaya asked immediately, jostling elbows in her rush to peer over Utau's shoulder. "There weren't any deaths, were there? Just–"

"No word of Taiwan, just mainland conflict." Utau pushed Yaya off her knees, like a mother cat who was tired of her kitten mobbing for attention. "Yuiki, listen to me: that's a good thing. The more Taiwan stays out of headlines, the better. The last thing they need is attention. Especially now."

Yaya slumped back into her seat, defeated. The mood was damp, both inside and out; rain thrummed down relentlessly outside, casting dancing green lights on the table. The sound of water rolling off the awning sounded like muffled marbles on tin. Inside, most girls chatted away over breakfast unconcernedly, as if oblivious to dark tidings. The primary concern reigning over the dining hall today seemed to be whether the rain would interfere with the festival that evening. Sāya was loudly explaining, within earshot, that her yukata could not get wet, as it was expensive material, you see. I could not have possibly been more bored off my arse.

Our end of the table was silent, withdrawn. Nadeshiko had not touched her food; she was gazing outside at the rainy lawn, face contemplative.

"Nadeshiko?" Amu said curiously, peering over at her. Yaya took Amu's thick tofu off her plate while she was distracted, whisking it efficiently into her mouth like a raccoon.

Nadeshiko's dark eyes flicked to Amu, with a tired smile. "Amu-chan."

Amu tilted her head.

"The hydrangeas are in full bloom outside. Come and see."

Amu moved over to peek over Nadeshiko's shoulder, and gasped. "Waaah… how pretty!"

Feeling the familiar cringe of annoyance, I deliberately took Nadeshiko's share of tofu off her plate with chopsticks and stared a hole in the back of my roommate's head.

"That's distasteful," Utau told me, without removing her eyes from the paper.

"Hm?" I asked, still staring at the green lights dancing on Nadeshiko's sleek hair.

"What you're doing," she said, grimly. I thought she was referring to the tofu, until— "Fujisaki-san doesn't belong to you, you know."

My hair fluffed up, indignantly. All week, the humidity had wreaking havoc on it, filling it with moisture like a cumulus cloud. Was Utau so imperceptive as to think that I was jealous over Nadeshiko? It was clearly Amu that I cherished.

"Of course she's not mine," I said, cutting my tofu up into edible pieces with my chopsticks with disgust. "Don't group me in with the likes of you."

Utau's eyes flashed. She looked as if she had a retort, but thought better of it when she noticed Yaya staring at us with bright, intelligent eyes. Our friend's face in that moment reminded me uncannily of a macaque I had seen at Ueno zoo when I was younger. Perched cutely on a tree branch, the monkey had waited for an opportunity to strike with the most adorable of faces, before snatching a bag of peanuts from an unsuspecting boy's hand.

I cleared my throat. "Is there anything else in there, Hoshina-san?"

"What, in this old rag?" Utau shook the limp newspaper.

"Yes."

She listed the headlines of interest at top speed. "Admirals continue to crack down on free-market capitalism, far-flying airplane gets prototyped, something about an Orange Peel commission…"

"Orange peels?" Yaya's ears perked up.

"My mistake— Peel commission. Rima?"

"What's all this about far-flying aeroplanes?" I asked, leaning over with interest.

"The kamikaze-go, Mitsubishi Ki-15 Karigane J-BAAI—"

"Good lord, woman," I interrupted. "I asked for elaboration, not machine rubbish."

"Ooh, are you talking about the Kamikaze plane?" Nadeshiko re-joined the conversation, evidently deeming us worthy of attention. "The one that flew to London in fifty hours?"

"No," I said, attempting vainly to shut her out.

"Yeah, we are," said Utau. "Didn't know you were into planes, Fujisaki."

"I'm not," Nadeshiko turned her head, modestly. "I only remember because the Prince and Princess Chichibu got to fly in it…"

"Good night!" I said in disgust, standing up. The table emitted a series of groans and protests, begging Nadeshiko not to launch into another lovelorn tirade about the beauty of the Imperial family.

"Alright, alright, I see how it is!" said Nadeshiko, also getting to her feet. "I'll just tell Amu-chan about how beautiful the Emperor's wife looked later, because she's the only one who listens to me…"

"'Listens to me'… is that what you call it? When she falls asleep with her eyes open," I observed. Amu's ears went bright red.

"N-no, Nadeshiko, I do listen, honest! I just, you know, don't keep up with that stuff…"

"The case rests," Utau folded up the newspaper with resignation, as if she shouldered a burden beyond her capacity. Although the Hoshina company letters had slowed to a monthly hindrance, it never took much of a load off of Utau. If anything, the passing weeks seemed to try her doubly. In the cool light of the morning monsoon, she looked very old.

Amu stacked up all our bowls from breakfast, one on top of the other. Content to let others do the work, I watched with mild interest.

"Rima, do you want to take these to the kitchens?" Amu asked, holding the leaning tower of Disgusting Rice Bowls out so that they wobbled precariously.

"Me?" I eyed them with distaste. "Whyever for?"

"You don't want to?" Amu sounded innocent, but her voice carried a twinge of exasperation. "It's your turn for kitchen duty, you know... Sanjō-sensei will give you an earful if she finds you skipping work."

I cursed under my breath. Nadeshiko made a hem hem noise of objection in her throat.

"Very well," I said, taking the bowls with some trepidation. "I shall… kitchen duty."

I carried the teetering pile of bowls around the dining hall's screen separator, to the kitchen, and deposited them amongst their multiplicitous siblings. Two other classmates —Manami and Wakana— were already there, jostling each other as they filled the basin with warm water. They gave little notice of me. I gave little notice of them. Amu reappeared behind me afterwards with the cups, lower lip gnawed in concentration.

"Amu-chan!" Manami said, whirling around and drying her hands on a dishtowel. Manami always wore her hair in two buns on either side of her head, glinting like glazed Viennese bread rolls. "Didn't expect to see you here with little ol' us. What gives?"

"Dish duty," said Amu, bending over to help them pick up the basin. I watched them all struggle in vain to pick it up, look of enjoyment on my face. Amu stared at me, which went ignored. As Amu and her other lame friends did the dishes, they chattered. I eavesdropped, contenting myself to dry the same dish over and over for ten minutes.

"What are you wearing for the festival?" Manami asked. Wakana launched into detail about her yukata and how boring it looked. I zoned out, hand around a soy sauce dish.

"… Do you think the Kouen students will be there? I'd be so nervous I'd die," confessed Wakana. I heard blathers of Hotori-kun and so handsome.

Tired, the soy sauce dish slid out of my hand and to the floor with a clatter. Abruptly, they stopped talking and looked at me.

I looked at Amu.

Amu looked at the soy sauce dish.

"… What about you, Mashiro-san?" Manami asked cautiously, as though I had subliminally asked them to drag me into their vapid discourse.

"What about me?" I said. I bent down to pick up the dish.

"Do you know anybody at Kouen?" Manami said, slowly, as though implying something.

"Mashiro-san has always been very popular with boys," Wakana observed, impartial. To my surprise, I found myself nervous and annoyed. I thought of Nadeshiko. Not Nagihiko— Nadeshiko.

"I know the headmaster," I said, remembering the incident in the forest. Amu looked at me, surprised. Manami couldn't have been less interested, until I added, "He is rather young-looking, isn't he?"

The two of them giggled and looked at each other.

"Yes," Manami said, keenly. "Surely he can't be married?"

"Why don't you ask him?" Wakana teased.

Manami threw a dishtowel at Wakana's shoulder, huffing. "Why don't you!"

As it turned out, Manami and Wakana's gossip proved to be useful. I knew of the headmaster's past, but not his present. I learnt three facts:

One, he was, indeed, unmarried. Two, he was somehow related to a student called Hotori Tadase, who sounded about as interesting as a slice of bread. Thirdly, and most interesting of all, Manami and Wakana could not verify any connection to the Fujisakis. Was his friendship with Amakawa-san not common knowledge? Of course, Nagihiko could just be sneaking around again. Ho hum! Suppose Nagihiko was shagging the fellow? I hummed through class, attracting startled stares from everyone around me.

Classes ended at noontime, as they usually did on Saturdays. On fine days, we would often take to the outdoors, sit outside and chatter, take our socks and shoes off and put our feet in the river. But the rain was still coming down as we exited the building, dripping off the leaves and soaking my stockings up over the ankle. By the time we got inside, the dormitory hallway was crowded with wet shoes and the musty smell that only came from damp people at close quarters. It was a chaotic whirlpool of girls, running room-to-room to borrow hairbrushes and pins and powder puffs, standing in hallways and overflowing from doorways. Many pairs of feet monopolized the bathrooms, all attempting to get closer to the big mirror on the wall. I edged my way around the chaos, ducking a hanging obi sash half-tied onto someone's waist and missing Yamabuki Saya's ferocious curler-lined head by millimetres. She looked like a triceratops.

Cripes! I shut the door to my room. The noise muffled to a quiet roar.

I had packed a single yukata with me at the start of spring term. It was squashed into the bottom corner of my suitcase and wrapped in several layers of rice paper. Several years old but worn sparingly, it was an alluring peachy-pink and dotted with stylized bobbins. I assumed Nadeshiko would be pleased, for once, to see me in the traditional clothes of my people. I was therefore surprised to step out from behind the screen and have her feather-gray eyebrows rise up in polite incredulity.

I frowned at her, pride wounded. Her eyes narrowed, staring at my feet.

"It's a bit short in the ankle. You have it bound too tightly."

"Surely you must be joking!" I said, exasperated. Was nothing I did perfect enough for this upper-class twit?

"I do not joke about such matters, Rima-chan."

I forgot she had no sense of humour—or irony. Eyebrows furrowed and chin wrinkled, she glared at my raiment. "Is that the only yukata you brought with you?"

"Of course it is," I replied, annoyed. "Why would I bring another?"

Gazing at the pattern, she reached a pale hand forward to finger the obijime cord tight around my waist. I tried to lean into her touch and away from it at once, and so only ended up hunching my torso like a noodle.

"… If you like, you can borrow one of mine?" she offered, oblivious to my wiggling.

"Whyever for?" I said, suspiciously.

She sighed, hummed and hawed for a while.

"The one you're wearing is inappropriate for the season," she finally consented to explain to me, in a placating voice. "Peach in July is unheard of. I've always felt as if Rima-chan…"

"Oh, you've felt now, have you?" I said, never tiring of this little jape.

"I've always felt," Nadeshiko ploughed on, "that Rima-chan looked the most beautiful in colder colours. Whites, and blues… cool colours would offset your pink skin well, wouldn't it?"

My pink skin? She was eyeing up my skin, now? Did she wish to eat it clean off my face? I put a hand on my cheek, and turned my gaze downwards in mild surprise. My mother adored pinks and baby yellows on me. My pull to black and icy lavenders and sharp blues was nothing more than a veneer, I fancied, to make myself look like even more of a glacier. I glanced back up at Nadeshiko. "There is no ulterior motive to this?"

"None," she responded, a tinge offended, until guilt shadowed her face. "Well– a little."

I rolled my eyes.

"Sometimes, when we were younger, you know, I'd… I'd look at you in the hallways, and imagine all the ways in which I'd…"

Flustered, I took a step back. WHAT?

"In which I'd dress you up, you know, if I got the chance. I know it's silly, and a little perverse, but I love clothes, you know, and there were a few I had in mind, and I've never had a roommate before, and Rima-chan, please, please?" she begged, twisting her mouth into a little pout like a ripe plum on the branch.

"My God," I swore, undoing the cord holding my obi in place, "It would take a crueller woman than I to continue to let you suffer so."

Nadeshiko giggled a little at this, and I felt a thrill. Cracking the white-clay veneer of the Fujisaki mask was no mean feat, even for an accomplished wisecracker like myself.

She made short work of laying out her collection out on our beds, a dizzying array of colours: sunset oranges and bloodred crimson, golden yellows and tender bamboo-shoot greens. A deep indigo the colour of the night sky held stitched-on gleaming fireflies nestled in its folds, and an elaborate Heian court scene lay on a bright gold brocade, right down to a pair of little boys playing with a ball. Nadeshiko sifted past some of them quickly. On others, she could hardly resist a loving caress and a story, of which there seemed to be vast and many.

"I snuck out of practice in this one, once," Nagihiko said, pointing to a serene heather-grey of silk, dragonflies skimming its surface. "I skinned my knee chasing a deer in Miyajima. Mother never found out."

I could hardly believe it until, to my delight, he turned over the silky outside. The inner corner hid a small brown bloodstain. I wrinkled my nose only for his benefit, and he laughed.

Of the dark blue one with fireflies, he told me of accompanying his father's Kabuki troupe on a moon-viewing party. It took place aboard a long river boat, in the middle of a lake. "It sounds romantic, but actors are awful drunks," Nadeshiko remarked. "They spent the entire time playing drinking games and telling lewd jokes. My ears felt violated."

"Lewd? I wish to hear one," I said, intensely.

Nagihiko's ears went bright scarlet. "Funny… I can't remember any."

"Funny," I echoed. If women weren't banned from the theatre, perhaps I would have liked to be a Kabuki actor, getting sodding drunk on river boats and violating people's ears. I pointed at the bloody red cotton. "And what of this one?"

"Mine, for tonight." Nadeshiko's eyes glinted like a beady serpent's; she pulled it out of its box to show me. Golden mountain lilies blossomed up its surface, stark pearly white against the dark red. There was no bleeding on the fabric; The pattern was clean, crisp. High-grade cotton, I thought. "You'll watch, of course?"

"Do I have a choice?" I said.

"No," with a twinkling eye, "But you'll like it."

"If you say so," I said, still touching Nadeshiko's yukata. I had never seen her in such a vivid red before. Seeing her hold it up, I had to wonder why. It highlighted the often invisible colour in her cheeks, and made her hair look almost darker than it truly was.

She smiled her knowing smile at me, folding it back into its lacquer box. "Let me show you the ones I was thinking for you."

"There's more than this?" I said incredulously, as she held up a silky ivory embroidered in seashells to my neck. "Where did you get all these? Surely you can't own all of them."

Kimono were expensive, and often ran as high as a labourer's yearly wage. Perhaps they were stolen.

Nadeshiko furrowed her brow, holding up a mousy blue next to the off-white under my pink face. "Some, bought. Others, our family is currently borrowing. It's not uncommon for dance houses to pass kimono between them."

"That cannot account for all of them."

"Oh, definitely not," she said, vaguely. "Stand up and turn around. I want to see how this one looks."

"Am I no more than a dress-up doll to you?" I said, infuriated at her dodgy replies.

"Oh, goodness, no, Rima-chan," Nadeshiko said earnestly. "You are so much more than that! Hold your arms out."

I held them out, watching her with a suspicious eye. I was still dissatisfied with her response. "Where else did you get all these, then?"

"Gifts," she replied, evasively. "You know, from teachers and such… or awards for performances… and, well, you know."

I gave her a funny look. No, I didn't know. " 'Awards for performances…' Is that right?"

"From patrons," she said, very fast.

"Patrons!"

I could see a visible sheen of sweat on Nadeshiko's neck, like spring dew on a snowdrop. "It's not like that! It's not as if…"

"Good God in heaven!" I interrupted, unable to contain my vicious glee. "Mama was right all along—dancers are prostitutes!"

"Not so!" Nagihiko's face flushed, scandalized. "I've given them nothing but my company— if you could get away with entertaining old geezers for expensive presents, I believe you'd do it more than I!"

This was undeniable, but I couldn't help giving her an offended look. Her white hands locked around my waist, turning me to face the mirror.

"And anyways, why complain?" Her voice said right in my ear, and I jumped. Why did she always do that? "It means I have more pretty clothes to share with you, doesn't it?"

I did not respond, only glowered. Nadeshiko was beautiful, and the idea that she got presents from vapid men irritated me beyond reason. It should be me! Getting presents, I meant. Not giving them to her. Besides, Nagihiko was a boy; wasn't that somewhat deceptive?

"Isn't that somewhat deceptive?" I hinted, but Nagihiko no longer seemed interested in pursuing the subject. Yukata hanging off my shoulders, he drew away from me to go look for an obi, humming a song under his breath that sounded suspiciously like the Nagasaki Wandering song. "What colour are you thinking?"

"White?"

"No," he said immediately.

"Alright, then." I drew my attention to my cuticle beds instead, picking at my hands with some impatience. I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy the attention— but must she be so clinical and thorough? When Nadeshiko returned to the mirror, it was with a pale beige obi the colour of ripe wheat. Hints of gold thread winked at me from its crisscrossing fibres. I tried to contain my reaction, but perhaps my face was not as stoic as I would have fancied. Nadeshiko smiled at me knowingly, as if my face was full of Christmas glee.

"You shouldn't feel awkward, you know. I insist you wear it. Think of it as compensation for putting up with me."

I hardly felt awkward. Only dazed, like I was in a dream. Amu would have pushed it away amid protest that it was too good for the likes of her, but me? No. This was most certainly good enough for me. I allowed Nadeshiko talk me into holding the yukata closed while he tied it around my waist, gazing at my reflection with enamourment.

"How would you like it tied?" Nadeshiko leaned over my shoulder, joining me in my vanity project.

I thought about it, craning my head over my shoulder to look at the dangling gold ends in Nadeshiko's hands. "I usually wear the butterfly knot."

Nagihiko nodded back at me. "That will do nicely, I think."

I wondered for a moment why he poised his arms so masculinely, before he answered my question with brute strength. Arms straining, Nagihiko pulled the ends together around my waist, less like a pretty girl dressing another and more like a man mooring a ship to a pier. I let out a small eep. The look I gave him was no less than offended.

"What?" Nagihiko asked, placing a broad hand over my stomach, pulling us flush together. Eep! "Hold here, please." With a laugh. "Kimono-dressing is no light woman's work. It requires a man's strength."

"Does it, now?" My voice shook, a little.

"Most things of beauty require some level of sweat and tears," he commented, as though he was composing a deep haiku out loud. He made me stand there while he tucked and pulled and adjusted. His hands seemed to dart everywhere. I fidgeted. When he turned me around to face the mirror again, I was finally relinquished with a gentle push.

It was a cold, solid blue-green, save for the wind chimes that blew on invisible gusts of wind near the hem. I reached down to brush the tops of my knees, not used to the grade of fabric against my skin.

"I like the colour," I said in a demure voice, feeling obligated to pay a compliment.

"So do I," said Nadeshiko. "It's celadon. Like the glazed pottery."

I was almost sure he was going to say something soppy, and was grateful when he didn't. "This is really alright, isn't it?" I asked.

"Of course," he said. "You do it credit—but I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that."

"Oh no, please," I fluttered, rolling my eyes and tucking a flyaway curl behind my face, "I do. It's the least I deserve."

Nadeshiko dressed herself in her red kimono. I sat down on the chair at the foot of my bed and prepared my face for makeup by rubbing lotion all over my face. I thought Nadeshiko wasn't paying attention until I picked up a powder puff and caught her staring at me, looking curious. "What are you doing?"

I brushed the puff in some powder. "Makeup?"

"May I?" She pointed at the powder tin. I handed it to her, too distracted by my own reflection in my tiny hand-mirror. She tilted her head at it in childish delight, and I was reminded of a jackdaw peering at a manmade curio.

"We use something like this for dancing," she murmured, putting the tin back on the bed, "But it's pure white. Yours is pink."

"I buy it in Ginza," I said, surprised at how normally I could talk about cosmetics with a boy. "The pink tinge is more natural, these days. It's what actresses wear in the West."

She watched, fascinated as I rouged my cheeks. With a prickle down my neck, I began to fancy myself hardly needing the colour. I lined my eyebrows thin and arching with a brown pencil, mimicking the pictures of girls on the cover of my books. Then it was lipstick, a pink-orange coral colour. Just when I thought Nadeshiko's interest was waning, I clamped an eyelash-curler over my eyes.

She reacted as if I had just jabbed a hot poker in my own face. "Ah! What is that?!"

"Eyelash curler," I said, switching eyes.

"Doesn't it hurt?" She pressed a hand to her mouth.

"It's only my eyelashes, you dolt," I said unkindly, before feeling a bit sorry. "It only feels a bit warm, from the heat. But nobody burns your eyelids, not if they're careful."

Nadeshiko leaned close to inspect my eyelashes, which curled up to make my eyes look wide and astonished. There was something almost constituting envy in her voice. Her breath tickled my chin and neck. "Your eyelashes are so long."

I stood stock-still, throat feeling as though I had swallowed an entire trout. "Do you want — want to try?" I asked, in my trout-voice.

Nadeshiko pointed to her eyes. "Me? But my eyelashes are much shorter than yours."

"I can do it," I lied, dismissively. "I've done this on loads of people before."

I held the tongs over the oil lamp to heat them up again, and took a closer look at her face. She hadn't been lying about her eyelashes. They were short and coarser than mine, and stuck straight out like a horse's. Undeterred, I brushed her bangs off her eyebrows and mimed my hand over my own face. "Try to keep your eyes as open as you usually do. And don't blink."

I clamped the metal curlers around her eyelashes.

"This feels scary," she whispered back, hands clenched on my arms.

I released the tongs, only to see that they didn't curve as much as I would have liked. I tutted. "You think ghosts are romantic, but are afraid of eyelash curlers?"

In answer to my question, she whined. "Are you going to put those near my face again?"

I rolled my eyes, and moved to her second eye. Perhaps I moved too suddenly, because she gasped a bit in pain, jerking back. Two eyelashes came with it, and she clapped a hand to her face.

A sane person (Amu) might have gasped "Nadeshiko! Are you okay, my sweet?" but I, with my slow reflexes, only stared as she clapped an eye to her face. "Did I burn you?"

"I–I don't know!"

"Let me see."

Nadeshiko's hand didn't budge, remaining glued to her left eye. I pulled at her wrist. "Let me look at it, you big baby."

"It hurts," said Nagihiko, unconvincingly, but let me peel his hand away from his face. His red-rimmed eye, glazed over with tears, had a little gap between hairs in the centre of his eyelid.

"You just moved back and ripped some eyelashes out, you oaf." I opened the eyelash curler. Three short black hairs lay there, white roots visible.

It was as if I had shown him his own severed limbs. Nagihiko gasped as if at fallen comrades, and pressed his fingers onto the pad of the curler. The eyelashes stuck to his finger.

I sensed a meltdown. "Make a wish."

"A wish?" He looked up at me, brown eyes wide and ignorant. I resisted the urge to kiss his eyeballs condescendingly.

"If your eyelash falls out, you're supposed to blow it away and wish for something." I explained, as though it was an obvious aspect of everyday life. My mother mentioned it to me as a child, when I'd find eyelashes stuck to my hand from rubbing my face. It may have been a family legend endemic only to Mashiros.

"Does it work if your roommate ripped them out of your face?" he said, with an almost Rima-like cadence.

"Does it matter?" I said, unimpressed at his mimicry. "Wishes aren't real."

His eyes locked on mine. I stared back. Softly, he pursed his pink lips and blew; the eyelash vanished from his fingertip, and the hair around my face stirred from the air. I felt thoroughly unsettled—flattered—a little guilty, as though there were a thousand people staring at me. To silence it, I forced his head back. His hand tightened on my arm.

"Even after everything that happened, you're still going to curl my eyelashes?" he said, incredulous.

"Otherwise, your face will be asymmetrical," I tried to reason.

Nagihiko closed his eyes, consenting to curling his eyelashes. He consented, too, to let me comb his hair back into a chignon at the back of his neck, and to put a pin with trailing white flowers just behind it. Just as I was attempting to cloy her into rouging her cheeks, there was a polite knock at the door, and a muffled thunk.

The door swung open without prompting, Yaya, Amu, and Utau in its wake. I wondered what would have happened, had Nagihiko not been already seated in his yukata, padded and bound, leg crossed girlishly over the other. Visions of Yaya bursting in on Nagihiko half-undressed danced through my head. I wondered how he managed when he lived alone, before I existed to sound the alarm.

I looked up, politely, only to make startling eye contact with Amu.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, sadly. "You got ready without me, Nadeshiko?"

I felt nothing but mutiny at this. To save myself, I hopped off the bed and picked up my geta sandals by the thong. Carefully, I tucked my coin-purse into the obi that Nagihiko had nearly strangled me with, regarding the two of them with cold eyes. "Hurry up."

This turned Amu's attention towards me. My heart tightened.

"Rima, you look beautiful!" she exclaimed, in the easygoing way she had. I fought back my shiver of pleasure and turned my head so that she couldn't see me biting back a grin like a silly idiot. Much to my misfortune, I turned in the direction of Nadeshiko to do so. She beamed back at me, with pride.

"But doesn't she?"