CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

花嫁

Hanayome

"What did you tell him?" my mother demanded, slamming the cab door. The quince flower fell out somewhere behind me. The cab took off down the cobblestones.

"Nothing," I said. "We spoke of school."

"I don't believe you."

She left the subject there. I was not fooled. Inside the sanctity of our home, I expected her to continue her line of questioning. Instead, she sighed.

"I've spoiled you." My mother let Emi take her coat.

A curl came loose from my updo, bouncing limply in front of my eyes.

"You're too young to understand what I am doing for you."

I squirmed. I never figured out how to wear kimono without feeling like I was rolled up in a rug.

"Kusukusu, leave us." My mother took her gloves off, tossing them onto the sideboard.

When the maid had gone, she said, "I was your age when I met your father."

The black-and-white marble tile looked too white. I had almost forgotten who father was.

"Your grandfather did not guard me like I do you. He sent me to England to study silk-milling when I was eighteen. We met. We shared the same ideas about the world. The way it ought to be."

My mother was the Dragon's polar opposite. She could tell the juiciest story and make it sound like an autopsy report. Age 18. Sex: F. Subject suffered blunt force trauma from premature love.

"I wasn't thinking of marriage. No girl is. I should have been. Back home, I was valuable. Our family had prestige. But to him, I was just a back-woods curio. Marriage is a guarantee. For us, there are few guarantees. Do you understand?"

I understood. In those days, even if you did not, you nodded anyway.

"You are young, but you won't be for long. By age twenty-five, your choices will dwindle. Your window is small. A negotiation can take months, Rima. You are not a selfish girl. You want to secure your future, don't you?"

I nodded.

"I have been too proud to find you another father. I could not stomach surrendering your grandfather's business to a stranger. Nor could I have a son and leaving you nothing. That was my own selfishness."

My mother had never spoken to me so long in her life. I raised my eyes. There was scant family resemblance between us. My mother was all hard edges, and I was all soft corners. For the first time, I saw that her mouth liked to sit in a firm little frown same as mine.

"Foreigners think they own everything. Your father thinks he owns you, too. Do you think I want to send you away to England?"

No. Maybe. I had no answer. Father was abstract. The faceless writer made vague promises of seeing me, of sending for me, of having me come over. It was easy to not miss him. It never came true.

"Of course you don't," she said. "But if I cannot find you a husband, he will. His choices will be strangers to our country, even if they are Japanese. What faults have you with Kirishima?"

Why was my mother in such a hurry to marry me off? Deep down, I think my mother suspected Nadeshiko's charming "brother" had my attention. The trade blockade continued; we were losing money by the day. I was conventionally beautiful and used to getting what I wanted. Nothing stamps out a woman's vanity like an early marriage. The isolation sees to that. Then the babies.

"He's a tenant farmer," I told my feet. "What does he know of silk milling?"

"More than a coddled professor. Is that your only reservation?"

"Surely, any man would do." It lost a little more power every time it was said.

From the other room, I heard Emi in the parlor, dusting. She had the radio on, soft and fuzzy. Mother wouldn't like that. She and Grandmother preferred dead silence when they were home. But when they were gone, Emi and I used to tune in to the radio shows and laugh until our ribs hurt.

A man's articulate, cheery voice was talking about an airstrike.

"… Chinese guerrilla forces dropped another round of incendiary bombs on the perimeter of Taihoku this morning, five in the morning…"

Taihoku. Where Yaya's mother was. She was probably sick with worry.

"Ugh," my mother said. "Kusukusu, turn that ruckus off."

"It's too uncertain," I blurted out. My plan! My plan! Nagihiko's life! "What about an army man?"

"The army men are climbers. You've set your eye on a soldier?"

Only if I failed.

"We are at war with China," I said, blandly. The radio shut off. "A soldier's stipend is stable."

My mother carefully looked me up, then down. She underestimated my political acumen.

"You sound like the Prince Hotori," my mother finally said.

I stood rooted to the spot. My heart swelled suddenly with hope.

Prince Hotori. Prince Hotori!

Tadase was weak-willed, but he loved Nagihiko. Could he protect her if he knew? His father outranked General Yamabuki. That much was certain.

My mother, oblivious to my epiphany, seemed to regard me differently.

"I'll look into it," she said. "But do not hope for anything."

She must have not looked very hard. There was not another word about suitors all through the New Year. We did not do first shrine visits in my family; mother misliked the gods. I thought of writing to Nagihiko constantly, but what was the point? – it was mere days before we went back, anyhow, so it would not get to him in time.

I tried writing anyway.

Dear NadeshikoNagihikoNadeshiko Nagihiko,

It is cold here in Tokyo, but not nearly as much as in Hiroshima.

The page was as blindingly white. I noticed now more than ever how lightly I pressed the pen, how the loops of each kana faded prematurely into nothing. Like my life's trajectory.

I miss you

I hate it here

I hope you are doing well

I love

I could write Hotori Tadase and make myself candid.

Dear Hotori Tadase,

In these felicitatious (is this a word?) early days of the Year of the Tiger, I find myself thinking of Hotori's family and ask after your house's health. The cherry blossoms will soon ripen on the branch and die as soon as they bloom. We both want something. You want Amu. I want Nadeshiko safe from General Yamabuki. You might ask, why is Mashiro-sama saying such a thing? Truthfully, it is because the General Yamabuki was in love with the Nadeshiko-san's mother – I am not presumptuous enough to read a man's indecipherable heart or lack thereof – and thereby wants to conscript her for the army and presumably let her die in a bomb-strike. Oh, but perhaps the Prince Hotori is not aware that she is truthfully a man, though registered under his late sister's identity? So of course, I am entrusting you with this, as well, if you do not already kn

I sounded like the madmen in Ginza square, espousing conspiracy theories. I crumpled it up and threw it into the grate. To be grown-up is to suffer burdens nobody else can relieve.


School was not coming quickly enough. Another day, another train, another five hours to Kobe. The trip had always been burdensome, now made heavier by impatience.

My mother had left me at the train station with a cursory "I will write soon." My fingers scrabbled hopelessly against the train windows. Kanagawa passed me in a grey-green blur. It had been barely an hour. What could I do? On the outside, I was as prim as I always was. On the inside, I was a mess. I searched for Amu up and down the train and found nothing. She must have been on the eleven o'clock.

I did not find Yaya, either. Instead I found an acquaintance.

"Mashiro-senpai!"

She was clutching a rice ball from concession, tapping her foot against the hardwood grain in a melody only she could hear. I had seen Nadeshiko do the same thing, once. My already-ragged countenance frayed.

"Hatanaka Marimo-san," I said. "Good morning."

Her eyes popped out of her too-big forehead.

"Yes," she said. "That – that's my name. Did you have a good New Year?"

I touched my mouth. Nadeshiko's cool hands were on my hips again, hair tickling my legs. I realized Marimo was watching me and stopped.

"It was alright," I said. "I'm just going back to sit…"

"Oh," she said, eagerly. "If you wouldn't mind company, may I sit with you?"

I did not know how to say no. Something about her reminded me of a stray, desperate for someone to notice how downtrodden it is. I would not have looked twice last year. This year, I had a new weakness: pity.

"I suppose," I said. We walked back to my train car. I sat down.

She sank down into the seat opposite me, fists balled on her knees. I was reminded of a gangster begging in repentance. Kanagawa vanished behind us, and I sighed. Maybe I would sleep.

I leaned my forehead against the pane of glass, eyes closing.

Marimo spoke. "To tell you the truth, I am a bit troubled."

Whatever could trouble her so early in the New Year? Young girls were always full of so much anxiety.

"Whatever it is," I said lazily, "I am sure it will resolve itself."

"I haven't received any response from Fujisaki-senpai. I am discouraged. I am certain I am beneath her notice. But even so, I flattered myself in thinking I would get her to acknowledge me…"

"You sent her a letter?" I said, cracking an eye open.

"I did," she said, miserably. "On your advice, I wrote out my feelings. I wanted her to know how I admired her."

It was unlike Nadeshiko to leave a letter unanswered. She was too occupied, maybe. My legs pressed together under my skirt. I flattered myself into thinking I was the reason Nagihiko would ignore a letter. Selfishly, I liked that he liked me.

"How did you get this letter into her possession?" I asked.

Marimo hesitated.

"What?"

"I slid it under her door," she said. "Should I not have done it?"

I had never met a girl with such low self-confidence – except perhaps Amu.

"I don't know," I said. I had never received a love letter, not for want of suitors. My mother protected me well. I was not the sort young girls fell in love with. The unhappiness and jealousy must have read on my face, for Marimo was suddenly looking nervous.

"It was cowardly." Morosely. "I knew I should have given it to her directly. Or asked you to deliver it for me!"

I could think of no worse chore.

"Too late now," I said. "Perhaps you should simply forget it."

Marimo looked aghast.

"How could I?" she whispered. "I can't get her out of my mind."

My eye twitched. She was mine, as much as she could be mine. How could she talk about my Nadeshiko with such arrogant authority, as if her claim was better than mine?

"A schoolgirl's fleeting feelings," I said, as if my feelings were not. My jaw moved on its own. "You will get married, and this will fade to a painful memory."

I hurt Marimo. I hurt myself, too. I could sense it from her. She flinched, and then shrunk back. I willed myself not to look at her.

"Maybe so," she said quietly out of my field of vision. "That does not make them less true."

My hands formed fists on my tights. Marimo stood up.

"I apologize," she said, voice shaking. "For taking up so much of your time."

Even Marimo could not dampen my desperation. The train ground to a halt, as if dragged on weights. My nerves were shot.

Suppose he changed his mind, and no longer wanted me.

Suppose things were awkward.

Suppose I miscalculated.

Suppose he found out about Kirishima and felt betrayed.

Suppose he had never loved me to begin with, and I had completely misunderstood.

Suppose it had all been a fever dream.

For once, I rushed to get to school. I snatched my bag from the luggage-handler. I would haul it myself. Whatever got me back into Nagihiko's arms faster. I recognized some fellow uniforms on the walk from the station, but they did not address me. I turned the other way, scanning the courtyard. No Nadeshiko.

Inside the doors of Seiyo, things got stranger.

The air smelled like iron. My classmates were swarming like a beehive without a queen. For once, they were not searching for Sōma or obeying Sanjō. They were talking amongst themselves. Before my eyes, cliques were closing rank, and girls were turning inward, forming clans. It only made me tenser.

What's happened?

I need to speak to Nagihiko.

"Mashiro-" a girl began, touching my arm. I was let into a nearby bulwark. Before me, Manami and Amu huddled, looking drawn.

I threw off Manami's arm. "I'm in a hurry."

I inwardly winced at how harsh it sounded. So did Manami, who released me.

Nagihiko.

A strip of light showed under the door. I turned the doorknob to our room. Heart beating – breath abated – face throbbing. One look, and I would be all his again.

The room was empty.

I had been trembling. I put my suitcase down on my bed. The hatbox on the side table. The vase that once held the begonias was empty. In my rush to get here, I was alone.

I sat on my bed. Surely, she would not stay away from me. I stewed in my own thoughts. They bloomed and bled through me like tea leaves through water. Any moment. Any moment, he would walk through the door.

"Rima!"

I whirled around. Amu had followed me inside, framed by the oil-lamps.

I opened my mouth. So did she. She held open her arms.

"What's wrong?" I said, hollowly. I walked into her arms for her benefit more than my own.

"I wanted to tell you, before you heard somewhere else… Have you spoken to Yaya?"

Yaya! I had forgotten about her. She was so easy to take for granted. I removed my face from Amu's shoulder. "What of her?"

Amu was white. "She's engaged."

I laughed. Amu did not think it was funny.

I broke free of her embrace. "Yaya?"

I was not getting the reaction I wanted.

Amu looked at me pityingly. "I'm serious."

Yaya, married?

I could barely begin to explain. Yuiki Yaya – who would never get old – the most childish of us, spoiled, the apple of her father's eye – a dutiful wife? Her father would never give her up. She would never accept. She had no need.

"There's been a mistake," I said.

I strode past Amu, past Manami wringing her hands. Behind her was Hatanaka, avoiding my eyes. Then Yua, and one of Saya's friends I did not recognise. The queasy feeling from New Year's Day intensified.

"Are we not having dinner?" I said. Even to myself, my voice sounded high, reedy, girlish.

"Fujisaki-sensei isn't here," the girl I did not recognise spoke. "She's coming in late from the station."

"Don't go into the dining hall," urged Manami. "It's a terribly sad business."

"What?" I demanded. "What else could have possibly happened?"

Nobody answered me. At that moment, Sanjō came into the hallway, face white. We pressed our backs against the corridor wall.

Sanjō turned to look at us, eyes sharp.

"Sensei," we all mumbled, bowing.

"I believe congratulations are in order," Yua supplied.

It cannot true. Congratulating Sanjō? Why?

"For… for your brother," Amu added, giving me a pointed look. "And Yuiki-san. A harmonious union… or something."

Sanjō stopped walking. She looked down at Amu.

"Yes," she said, curtly. "Thank you very much. You humble us."

She continued down the hallway. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a bereaved student."

Amu was about to say something to me. It was too late. I stormed off, following Sanjō.

"Rima!" Amu called after me. The other three joined in, clamouring.

"Mashiro-san, please! It's awful luck for a bride!"

To hell with superstition! I followed Sanjō across the lawn towards the main foyer and hall, cold and dewy.

Inside, she stopped. Sanjō's padded suit shoulders crowded my sightline. I hesitated, wondering why she had stopped walking.

"What is this ruckus? Unhand Yamabuki at once! Where is Kichiga?!"

I ducked under her arm.

A teacher forcibly restrained a weeping Watarai. Yamabuki stood opposite, radiating smugness despite her dishevelled curls. Girls seemed both afraid of Watarai and sorry for her, as if she would swing if they got too close. There was incomprehensible shouting of varying volumes and tones.

If Nadeshiko had been here on time, this would never had happened. She had a way of soothing tears and making girls remember their breeding.

But Watarai – she was beyond help. As I watched from my aloof vantage point, I had an inkling of something. Wasn't... didn't...?

Sanjō was demanding an explanation. I gripped my own arms, knowing the answer before it came.

"Her father passed away two weeks ago," one of Watarai's friends said quietly. "In China."

"'Passed away,'" Sanjō said, with uncharacteristic coldness. "Don't mince words. Watarai died in the line of combat. An honourable death in service to the Emperor. I see naught what this has to do with attacking Yamabuki."

Her friends did not speak.

"Misaki-chan is grieving," one of them said, breaking the silence. "She just lost her father."

It took me a moment to realize that the girl who spoke was Yaya. Yaya! This was where she had been. How much a single fortnight had changed her: her usually cheery cheeks were flat and sombre.

I remembered the air strikes and caught the stares her way. I felt sick. I would not be far behind. Next, it would be my sympathies on the chopping block.

Before I could get my wits about me, a hocking sound. Yaya gasped.

Watarai spat on Yamabuki. A glob of spittle landed at Yamabuki's feet. Gasps and murmurs. A few giggles.

"ENOUGH!" Sanjō bellowed.

Yamabuki screeched and stumbled back, falsely swooning onto her clique's waiting arms. Her seconds-in-command flocked her like adoring bridesmaids.

Watarai wiped her mouth. Her arm was yanked behind her back. She was gone quicker than we could react behind a sliding screen. A relative would pick her up, or she would face Fujisaki discipline at sundown. Whichever came first. My back ached, thinking about it.

"I see," Sanjō said sarcastically in her friend's damning silence. "Yamabuki is being held accountable for her father, then. I won't have blood feuds under a school roof."

Yaya and I watched each other. She had always been clever. More than she let on. She knew I was not pleased.

Sanjō directed us all away, and the crowds slowly disseminated. Yamabuki's cohort was called into the kitchen. Her voice carried across the room, even as she walked away.

"How dare they flaunt their disloyalty to our country, in front of a future Princess? To have an honourable death in the family – they should be thanking us, that my father called him to such a noble service at his age."

Yaya and I stood there, listening to her voice fade. My nose crinkled. I turned on my heel.

"Heyy- oy, Rima-tan!"

Her feet pitter-pattered after me.

"Why?" like an abandoned puppy. She always knew how to exploit my pity where I could give it. "Why?"

"I don't need to justify myself to you," I tossed my hair and kept walking. It was haughty – and it was illogical. "A man!"

Yaya was quiet.

"Sanjō-kun is younger than we are." Her feet pattered faster. "You're really sad over this?"

I whirled around, fully pouting.

"You're younger than I am!"

"Not by much!" quivery. "I'm not like you!"

Amu, and now Yaya, said I'm not like you. No, I was not. I was unlucky enough to be born pretty but lacklustre, consumed with perverse desires from the inside out. I had no consideration for my family, my status, my purity. I was the bad girl. The fallen one beyond redemption. The deuteragonist.

I turned my face away, angry, but Yaya was not done.

"Will you not be happy for me?"

"You have no need!" I shot back.

"Tsubasa," tears burst out over her cheeks. "Will get everything. After what's just happened, I want- I want to make life easy for him. This is my chance to prove my loyalty. Don't you see?"

"Sanjō-sensei's brother is a soldier. A walking corpse." My eyes were cold, fixed. What was I saying? I do not know.

"Stop it! He's kind!" Her lip trembled. "I'm too old for Papa. I can't be independent like you – I'm a burden."

Was I not? I opened my mouth.

"Kairi-kun will take care of me," Yaya said louder, now attracting stares. "I can't be an expense on my parents any longer. I'd rather grow up on my own terms than someone else's – can't you see it's better than a man twice my age?"

I felt stupid. As if I was in any better of a position than she was! It made me angry. One by one, my friends left me alone in girlhood. I was mourning her like she was dead. Rage took over my body. Don't leave me! Don't go where I cannot follow!

I opened my mouth: to retort, to apologize, to say anything. The dinner bell rang. My mouth shut. We had no choice but to leave our conversation in the hall and return for supper.


The news of Watarai's dead father spread over sardines on rice. Gone was the Chinese incident, the Chinese conflict, the Chinese emergency.

Pretence had been dropped. War. War, war, war.

The distant headlines were brought unpleasantly back to our shores. We were a disparate, desolate lot. Nadeshiko was still absent. Yaya was not speaking to me. Amu was fretting. I was preoccupied with marriage myself. My body felt heavy.

I picked up a sardine in my chopsticks. I squeezed it right behind its gills, so that its little mouth popped open.

"Yaya, look," I murmured, tentatively.

I made the sardine's little mouth open. A girl next to me looked over.

"Eh?" Amu looked up; eyes red-rimmed.

"Seiyo ladies," I trilled, in a refined little accent, undulating like The Dragon.

"Didn't your mom ever tell you not to play with your food?!" Amu exclaimed. Yaya turned away, lip pushing out with a pout.

"It is with a heavy heart I announce we are now at war." The fish flopped. "With our needlework, we must take up arms against the interlopers, and sew them to death for the Emperor."

A girl put a hand over her mouth. Yaya's lips, still thrust out, turned a little toward me.

"Yaya-channnnnnnnnnn," I trilled. Yaya smiled a little. A girl next to me giggled. Soon, the whole table was snickering politely. Even when Sanjō shot everybody a glare, they kept on laughing.

I smiled around the hardened rock in my throat. With a swallow, it sank to my stomach.

The rock did not re-emerge again until I was alone in my room. I slammed the door so hard that a little piece of paper fluttered against the floorboards. Huh?

I picked it up, examining it. I thought about ripping it into little pieces. Of throwing it into the oil lamp. Mashing it under my shoe.

I turned it over. Fujisaki-senpai, written in childish Hiragana.

Unfolded, it read thusly:

It's me… Marimo-san. Maybe you don't remember me.

My chin wrinkled.

I'm a year younger than you, in the Star Class. Forgive me for being so forward. I don't usually do this kind of thing. But my

The floorboards creaked. Remembering the diary, I threw the note down on the floor in a panic.

Nothing. Nobody. From the next room over, a cough. I picked it up again.

But my feelings have reached such a point that I cannot repress them anymore. Like an instrument, they must be played. I like this about senpai. We don't need to use words; music is its own language.

I felt sick.

I feel sick when I'm away from you. Senpai's demeanour is so poised, so feminine. You are gentle and patient with everyone around you. I feel calmer just by being in your presence. I want to be more like you. I find myself thinking often of what you would do in my position. I remember when we danced, and my heartbeat quickens. Maybe we can dance again sometime...

Harlot!

Let me know. I know it's selfish, but I want to know if you feel the same.

Why would she? She had me. Anger was pounding in my ears, hot. The gall!

Sorry for the intrusion.

Hatanaka Marimo

Why should I be surprised that someone else had seen Nadeshiko's radiance? I tossed it on Nadeshiko's desk, fuming. My nails dug into my palms. If Nadeshiko was a woman unlike any other, this letter would be normal. Fawning underclassmen-upperclassman romances were plastered all over girls' magazines. Young girls developed infatuations with other women at school all the time. I could attest to that. When done properly, like Marimo, it was pure. Yearning. Innocent admiration, a little fling before marriage, that's all.

Not like me. Not like in the teahouse.

I missed Nadeshiko – Nagihiko – either of them – so hard I thought I may grind it to dust in my gut. I worried my cuticles until the skin frayed. I paced. I worked myself into such hysterics that when the door did open, my head snapped towards it so quick that my neck cricked.

For an awful moment, it might have been my imagination. But, no. She was standing there. Her suitcase unusually dwarfed her. Like a dream, she put it away in its place at the foot of her bed. Practicality so often takes priority to passion. Nobody has ever kissed for long on an empty stomach.

I walked around her. My blouse brushed her yukata sleeve. I shut the door. I turned my back from her. My sleeve tingled. A million thin, invisible threads connected us, like noil fibres not yet woven.

I thought of Marimo's letter, and I felt one of the little threads break off.

"Mashiro-san," Nadeshiko acted as if she had just noticed me. "Good evening."

Another snapped. I had not been Mashiro-san for a year. I was not Mashiro-san when she wanted my attention. Nadeshiko did not moan ah, ah, Mashiro-san! when she was rolling around in my arms. My brow furrowed. I got petty.

"Fujisaki-san." I turned so fast my hair narrowly missed smacking her in the face. I picked up a book without reading the title. "The journey treated you well."

"It did." It wasn't a question.

I intended to crawl out of emotional Hades in one piece but could not resist self-harming. I turned. I looked at Nagihiko. Her face was a mask: firm, white, round. Lips quirked, just so. Her eyes, pleading.

To be in love is to wait until you cannot wait any longer, and then wait some more. I could not bring myself to look weak in front of her. I walked to my bed and hugged my knees to my chest, then opened the book in a nonchalant fashion.

"What are you reading?"

"A book," I said, shortly.

I had already spent most of my life convincing myself I did not care about anything. What was one more day? My throat burned, and my hands were still shaking. You will not make a fool of me again.

I did not give her a chance to. I washed my face, braided my hair, and got into bed cold and seething. Nadeshiko was lying on her bed like a corpse, arms crossed over her chest, staring blankly at the ceiling. I burned for her. Even when she looked uptight and pensive and drove me crazy, I wanted her more than anything else.

"May I turn the light out?"

"Have I upset you?"

My hand froze on the light.

"No," I lied. The room plunged into darkness.

I rolled over, my back to her. I hugged my knees and turned myself into a ball, like I did when I was young. I stared into the fuzzy shapes in the dark, and mentally willed Nagihiko to me.

Willing is exhausting. So is waiting. My eyes closed. I thought loving the person in the other bed would open their door to me. Nagihiko's true self would shine bright and dazzling, polished like a diamond. I would finally understand what was going on in that pretty brain, in my childish fantasy.

I was too naïve and young to understand that love doesn't work that way. Nagihiko was just meat and bones. I could no more read his mind than fly. Amu had longed to do the same. I scowled.

There was a queer noise emanating from the other bed, different from the creaks and groans of the building settling, and the usual sounds of night-time. This was wetter. Though I tossed and turned, I heard no regular, even breathing of sleep from the other bed. Was she still awake? Why was she breathing so quick?

My eyes opened in the dark, suddenly one-part excited, one-part jealous. Surely not…!

My dark imagination went unfulfilled. Nagihiko was crying. Muffled, choked sobs, but tears nonetheless. I was paralyzed to the spot. If he heard me wake up, he gave no indication. He only wept listlessly. At once, my hardened heart melted into nothing. Was this really the kind of person I was? Selfish? The cold-hearted woman who let someone cry in front of her?

"Nagihiko," I whispered. He was always Nagihiko when we were alone together. Nadeshiko belonged to everyone else, but Nagihiko was mine.

The sniffling continued. I would be brave.

"Nagi…" I tried again, in a shaky hiss.

The breathing stopped, as if he was holding air in his lungs. I picked at the sheets, pressing my back against the wall.

I did not comfort people who cried - unless Yaya counted. I did not know how. I wasn't prone to tears. When I cried, Mother left me to my own devices. Kusukusu had, once or twice, bribed me with a bonbon under the door. Don't carry on so! She had begged, knowing it was a performance. The mistresses are getting agitated! My wailing then grew defiantly louder.

If Nagihiko was play-acting, his performance was awful. If there were sweets hidden somewhere to bribe him with, my eyes could not find them in the dark. Something to shut him up! Anything!

I looked down at the laces on my own night-gown.

"Come into my bed," I whispered.

Crying makes you excessively stupid. All the water leaves your skull and comes out your eyes. This is the only explanation I have for his idiotic response.

"There's no room," he replied wetly.

To my surprise, I did not care. I lifted my coverlet up, letting warmth escape.

"Hurry up." I shivered. "It's cold."

I did not have the energy to argue if he insisted that it would defile me. Or that we could share a bed, once, but never again. We shouldn't. I knew that as well as he did.

White ankles dropped towards the floorboards. His ghostly outline came towards me. The moon reflected silvery tear-tracts. I reached for him. Mine. He slipped under my covers. He buried his wet face in my neck. I let him.

If a futon was cramped, a single bed was worse. My boy had grown even lankier through autumn, which left me little choice than to yield most of the mattress. He was a distraught child, and I was his ragdoll. He wound his arms around me and squeezed. My heart went with it. He was a little childish like this, wasn't he? A little cute. I did not think of it often, but he was a year younger than me. Still a boy.

"Come here," I whispered, even though we could get no closer. He gulped air against my breastbone. I Then I put both my hands against his jaw, cradling it. I forced him to look up at me.

"Don't hide from me again."

His brows pulled together. He nodded, averting his eyes. He pressed his nose up against my breastbone again, breathing against the laces.

As I let him sob into my chest that night, I wondered what had made him cry. Or who.


Two brides this chapter, if you squint...

The fic lives! Sincere apologies for the delay - it's definitely been A Year, huh? The plot is getting a little dense, but hopefully everyone's still following!

It was my long-time Like A Lady consultant teacupdrop who first suggested this particular Kaiya dynamic, YEARS ago. We both love the ship, buuuuut we love ourselves some samurai bushido code even more. HAHAHA