Chapter 8: After the Rain, Earth Hardens

All was golden silence. The kaiseki meal was eaten, the meditative walk through the garden had concluded, the tea was poured and enjoyed following the ringing of a gong, and after four hours of chaji, the tea ceremony came to a close. The guests examined the utensils and glazed pottery one last time, graciously bowed to their hostess for the tea, slid open the door, and quietly shuffled out of the teahouse and into the garden, but rather than return to the waiting area to collect their things and bid farewell, the two guests were given special instructions to stay behind and wait for a maid to escort them inside the main house. Their hostess wished to speak to them.

The ladies knelt around a square table and were served the option of hot water or saké with some crackers and soon Hatsumomo entered the reception room, kimono unwrinkled, movements flawless, her jetblack hair combed in an elegant chignon. Her temae had been particularly good that evening. Being the eldest sister to the current head of the Kamo clan had its upsides. Like all great women before her, Hatsumomo was well versed in the art of tea making, steeped heavily in Zen and Confucian values; mental control and body discipline, conformity to one's class and social status, tradition and obedience. In her eyes, life was set with rules. Such rules should be implemented and followed. When followed, prosperity and harmony could flourish in a just, civil society. It was for this reason Hatsumomo always wanted a quick word with her guests after chaji, to see how things were going. To see to it that prosperity and harmony were maintained.

For a while the conversation flowed freely. They talked about the usual riff-raff, about the weather and the Sakura blossoms beginning to fade, about the exciting new production of Henry Purcell's Dido and Aeneas premiering at the New National Theater Opera that season, about house staff and husbands, and with husbands came the inevitability of children. Hatsumomo's opportunity arrived. She whipped out her sensu fan from the breast fold of her kimono.

"How is Toge's voice coming along, Tomoe? Any progress?"

Inumaki Tomoe stiffened. While she tolerated Hatsumomo's "get togethers" most days, the woman could be a downright menace, sticking her nose in places she ought not. Besides her fatigue from enduring four hours of rigid chaji and sitting seiza in a layered kimono, the last thing Tomoe wanted to discuss was her son's condition.

"No," she replied tersely, swallowing a mouthful of saké. "He's able to manage a few words here and there, but not much else." She cast her brown eyes away from her hostess, the rice wine tasting bitter on her tongue.

"Oh. Well, no need to look so defeated, dear," Hatsumomo said, flapping her fan as if solving the issue. "It's thanks to him the Izumaki family is respectable again. A mother like yourself should be proud."

Tomoe managed a fake smile. She was proud of her son, very much so, but not for his curse technique.

Marrying well into a prominent family was more than Tomoe's upbringing prepared her for. Like most sorcerer marriages, the match was arranged before her twelve birthday, though unlike most sorcerer marriages, Tomoe and Suga were childhood friends, separated by a slim six months. The Inumaki family were low on funds and the Shimoda family, then self-made millionaires, were looking to climb the social ladder and shed their peasant ancestry. In the end, both parties got what they wanted, and Tomoe, being the eldest daughter and subsequent heir to the Shimoda fortune, would sustain the Inumaki clan for years to come. Her ability to see curses was merely an added bonus. However, the transition from heiress to sorcerer wife came at an unforeseen cost.

By all accounts, Suga and Tomoe's marriage was a happy one, a relationship built on trust and understanding, and occasional passion, but five miscarriages and eight years of childlessness jeopardized their future. Being a woman, Tomoe's favorability within the jujutsu realm was dependent upon producing an heir. Toge's birth arrived not a moment too soon.

She could still recall his whimpering cries when they laid his little pink body on her chest; eyes shut; tiny arms flailing; her labor pains forgotten. She and Suga wanted more children, of course, sought the aid of medical professionals and attempted two rounds of IVF, but in the end, only Toge was left to occupy the cribs. Yet he was enough, she told herself. Her precious baby boy was enough, and it was the truth. Toge was more than enough for Tomoe with his matching blonde hair and brown eyes. Suga often joked their son was more Shimoda than Inumaki, "There's not a trace of me in him, Tomo-chan," he would tease. That all changed the moment the boy started to speak.

As a general rule, cursed techniques tend to manifest somewhere between the ages of four and six, but the Inumaki clan's cursed technique was unique in that aspect. Children as old as eight months could show signs of cursed speech. Whenever Toge cried or threw a tantrum, his parents noticed objects would mysteriously move and glass would crack or rattle, and when Toge started forming actual words, the glass would shatter completely. They convinced themselves nothing was wrong at first, thinking if they ignored it, the happenings would go away, but the official diagnosis came at the tragic expense of a little ha-chikui, crushed to a feathery, bloody pulp all because two year old Toge innocently said the word, "birdie."

There was no getting around it. Their boy had cursed speech, and was sealed with the Serpent Eyes and Fang shortly afterwards.

It didn't stay secret for long. Word that the Inumaki clan bore a child with the rare ability traveled fast, elevating the Inumaki's blood status and allowing them admittance inside jujutsu's innermost circle, which Tomoe quietly resented, especially when Toge's condition became the topic of interest. Now entering teenagehood, they'd begun experimenting with words he could use without overexerting his voice, or accidentally cratering a hole in the wall, but progress was minimal. It hurt knowing her son would never be able to carry a normal conversation, or call her "Mama" ever again. If it weren't for her husband and younger sister, Tomoe would've capitulated from the stress, though experience made her older and wiser, and the slanderous talk that used to crush her was beginning to lose its vise. She developed a harder skin. She could hold her own against the likes of Kamo Hatsumomo.

Takara, who was watching her sister's distress from across the table, sought to fix the situation and take charge. "Did any of you hear what happened to Gojo's wife the other day?" she deflected smoothly. "Just awful."

"Yes, the poor girl," Tomoe said, grateful for her sister's rescue. "She's lucky she wasn't killed."

"I was told she received facial wounds, but Rin's a terrible gossip. Knowing her, none of it's true - or at least, I hope it's not true - For a foreigner, I'd say she's rather pretty." Takara turned to their hostess. "Don't you think, Hatsu-senpai?"

Hatsumomo's nose wrinkled as though someone had thrown a dead fish onto her lap. "Beauty alone doesn't bring a house honor," she sneered. "The girl has yet to prove herself."

The two sisters exchanged tepid glances with one another.

Tomoe lifted a brow. "Honor? Since when did you care about the Gojo family's honor? I don't recall you ever mentioning it before."

"Satoru is the strongest sorcerer alive. What he does reflects the jujutsu world as a whole," Hatsumomo answered promptly. She stopped fanning herself and drew a winded sigh. "But surely I'm not alone in thinking the Gojo family has lost some credibility. By right, this foreigner now outranks the three of us combined, despite the fact she does not talk like us, think like us," she broke into a whisper, "and if I may be frank, does not look like us. You saw the way she was at the wedding, stuttering and shaking like a leaf. It's ridiculous."

This resulted in a delayed response.

"She has The Sight, Hatsu-chan," Tomoe said softly.

"By who's word, Tomoe? The Association's?" The hostess' laugh was scornful. "Don't be fooled, those Christians aren't as pious as they'd have everyone believe. For all we know it's a scam. A plot to make off with Gojo's money."

Tomoe swallowed, her legs prickled from having knelt for so long. "Be that as it may, Hatsumomo, the families keep having sons. There's no daughters for any of them to marry."

"Nonsense, there's Ogi-san's twin girls. He couldn't have married one of them?"

"Maki and Mai are barely twelve."

"So?" This didn't bother Hatsumomo in the least. "You hold off until her eighteenth birthday, and then have them marry. That's how it's been done for centuries. Satoru's a man. He could've waited."

"Satoru would never marry a Zen'in, even if she were of age," Tomoe rightly pointed out. "He wouldn't want Naobito influencing his future children."

The Kamo woman rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. We all know how unruly that boy is. How averse he is to tradition. Wouldn't you feel better knowing his children were raised in capable — "

Tomoe abruptly lifted her hand. "Plum blossoms cannot return to their branches, Hatsu-chan," she sighed, growing weary of the argument. "What's done is done. Satoru has married Lord Thames' niece and there's nothing we can do to change it. The best thing now is to give them our full support."

"I agree," Takara chimed in. "This isn't 1638. The rest of Japan has embraced foreign marriage. Why can't the jujutsu world do the same?"

Hatsumomo could feel herself become slightly mollified, tightening the hold on her sensu. "Because to do so would hasten our demise, Takara," she said with absolute, irrefutable conviction. "These people are like ants. You let one infest the home, and before long, we'll have families from all over the globe propositioning their daughters for marriage. And then we'll be overrun with their strange religions and customs to boot. It'll dilute the bloodlines and ruin our way of life." She waved frantically to cool herself. "It's bad enough Ichiro married that Pakistani woman."

"Kumari-san is Indian," Takara remarked.

"Indian? What's the difference?"

Both sisters tried and failed to mask their embarrassment. Hatsumomo was knowledgeable on many fronts, but foreign affairs wasn't one of them. Conflating Muslim Pakistan with Hindu India was sure to win you no friends. The history between the two countries couldn't be more volatile and conflict within the Jammu & Kashmir region was still ongoing. But irrespective of Hatsumomo's ignorance, Kumari and Ichiro were every bit in love and welcomed a baby boy last September.

Tomoe collected herself. "Hatsu-chan, if it's religion and child-rearing you're worried about, your concerns are unfounded. Measures were put in place prior to the union. Hannah is allowed to keep her Christian faith, so long as her children be raised in the Kami and Buddhist way. I believe she received special dispensation from her bishop."

"And besides, I doubt their children will look foreign, right?" Takara added. "I mean, they won't look fully Japanese, of course, but I'm almost certain they wouldn't pass as 'white' either." She said this more to persuade than anything else.

But Hatsumomo would not be persuaded, growing frustrated at their inability to see reason. "I just don't understand why Satoru couldn't have married a nice Japanese girl, that's all," she said, distraught. "Iori Utahime would have sufficed. Sure, she may be common, but at least she's trained in the jujutsu arts and is closer to him in age." She folded her fan with a "snap" and shoved a candied sweet from a bowl into her mouth.

Takara grinned, almost choking on her drink. "I think Iori-san would rather marry a rock than wed herself to Satoru," she snickered. "Rumor has it those two are like water and oil. They can't stand each other."

"But that's exactly my point," Hatsumomo fumed, mouth full of candy. "They don't have to like each other. I know plenty of married couples who can hardly sit together in the same room, and they turn out just fine."

"Miserable is more like it," Takara growled under her breath.

Hatsumomo's eyes narrowed into slits. "Sorry, is there a problem, Taka-chan? You've been mumbling an awful lot lately."

"Not at all, senpai," Takara said congenially. "If ever there were a problem, you'd be the first to know."

Her tone was ambivalent, but Hatsumomo knew a challenge when she heard one.

As predicted, the aftermath following Satoru and Hannah's engagement divided the jujutsu families into opposing camps. Hatsumomo sided herself amongst the conservatives, insisting too many outsiders threatened the jujutsu world, while Takara prided herself as an "avowed integrationist," believing new blood was necessary to "keep the wheel spinning" as she put it. Tomoe shared her sister's views, of course, but these tea sessions were growing tiresome. If eyes were knives, Hatsumomo and Takara would be at each other's throats. One false jab, one off-handed comment, and there'd be blood splattering the walls.

"Hatsumomo," Tomoe said calmly, bringing the conversation back into focus and pulling attention away from her sister. "Don't you think by marrying Hannah-san, Satoru has, in fact, preserved the Gojo family's magic? The Thames family is a noble house, renowned far and wide across Europe. Their cursed technique is quite valuable too, I might add."

The Kamo looked affronted. "Oh? And what is it about their 'cursed technique' that makes it so valuable?" Her guests were silent, not knowing the answer. It took all of Hatsumomo's willpower not to gloat. "Precisely," she said, unfurling her fan with a flourish. "Satoru doesn't know what he's gotten himself into, or whether the wife will turn out to be barren, or, or…" She paused as though the thought hadn't occurred to her. "My word, that'd be quite the scandal, wouldn't it? All this fuss over a tiny sprout, only for it not to bear fruit."

"Now, now, let's not get ahead of ourselves," Tomoe chided, having experienced infertility first-hand. "Remember the main reason she's here is to help us excorcise Sukuna. That's the important thing."

"Fine." Hatsumomo flashed them both a reprimanding look. "But when it all goes to hell in a handbasket, I don't want either of you to say I hadn't told you so."

The clock struck five, the hour of the rooster. The three women finished their saké and rose from their knees. The battle may be over, but not the war.

...

"You didn't tell me you had a sister."

"You never asked."

"Will I get to meet her?"

"Probably not. Tsumiki doesn't like coming here all that much."

That afternoon, away from prying eyes, Hannah and Megumi spent their Friday in the garden, conversing over English homework, Megumi's least favorite activity. Being a native born Englishwoman, Hannah was only too happy to proofread the assignment. His class was learning the nuances between "there, they're, and their." Homophones. Easy to get wrong if you're not careful. For added practice, Hannah would jot down different scenarios and have Megumi fill in the blank: "Jun lives over there. Jun's family bought their house. They're going on vacation this summer…" If he used the wrong word, Hannah would circle it in red and voice why it was incorrect. By the end of the lesson, Megumi seemed to grasp the assignment. He'd be speaking the Queen's English in no time.

"Who're these for again?" the boy asked, bored of playing "fill-in-the-blank." He lifted a bowl of freshly cut violets off the picnic table.

Hannah glanced up from the worksheet. "Mr. Ijichi."

"Ijichi?" He said it like an offense. "You mean that guy who wears those crumbled suits and gets yelled at all the time? Why does he need flowers?"

Hannah held her tongue. Wanting to set a good example, she refrained from telling the boy about her "trip" to Sekiguchi Cathedral. Megumi was mature for his age, true, but he was still a child and children should know it's not okay to break the rules, even when you manage to get away with it. Two days after the fact, Hannah's conscience was drowning in guilt. By unknowingly aiding in her escape, Mr. Ijichi had almost lost his job. She would leave the violets on his desk later that evening, along with a handwritten note. It wasn't much, but something was better than nothing.

"He's been working hard," she replied softly. "I thought some flowers would cheer him up."

The boy set the bowl down, and huffed. "Whatever."

Hannah felt her cheeks pull upwards. Though they shared a significant age gap, she quickly found solace in the eleven year old. She was still humiliated after flashing him in her underwear, but Megumi chose to help rather than gawk. How many eleven year olds would rise to that level of maturity if put in the same position? The fact he blushed easily was endearing too. It proved he really was ashamed for having looked. Hannah knew better than to slap a gift horse in the mouth. She owed it to this boy for his good heart, the first person she could safely in call a friend.

However, Fushiguro Megumi was a mystery wrapped in an enigma. Kind, yes, but guarded like an ironed chained fence. She'd only just learned his last name by accident; his uneven signature scratched at the top of his homework. Why he was anxious about it, Hannah didn't know. Fushiguro wasn't an uncommon name. Also, why was someone so young hanging around a high school? An accelerated learning program perhaps? Did jujutsu schools have such a thing?

Hannah hadn't forgotten the time he referred to Satoru as "Gojo-sensei," but she thought he wasn't technically a teacher yet. Could Megumi really be his student? If so, it would explain the wolf dogs. She remembered the three red dots on their foreheads, marked in the shape of a triangle. She was certain no living breed bore those types of markings, hinting the canines were magical, but she wouldn't press further. Learning he had an older sister was enough prodding.

Well.

Except for one more thing.

"Megumi, where did you say you lived again?"

The boy inclined his head, lazily resting a palm on his cheek. "In Kichijoji." He arched a brow. "Why?"

Ah, so he might not be of much help. She twiddled the red pen in her hands. "Have you ever visited the Gojo estate?"

"Yeah, a few times."

Hannah bolted upright, leaning so close he could feel her breath. "And?"

He blinked, inching himself away, a little scared. "And what?"

She spoke quickly. "Thoughts? Feelings? Opinions?"

He pondered this carefully for a moment, rubbing his neck.

"I guess it's pretty big."

"You guess?"

"Yeah." The boy nodded, blushing. "I got lost once."

Hannah looked down at her hands. Tomorrow she'd be moving in. With Satoru. In his "pretty big" house.

God help her.

...

It was the hottest day in April when Hannah arrived at the Gojo estate Saturday morning, sweat beating down her brow, arms aching from having to haul Edith's old suitcase up the hill. It wasn't a long journey per say, a good ten minute hike from campus, but the bulky suitcase slowed her momentum and the leather handle rubbed against her palms and dug into her skin with every step, forcing her to set the trunk down a couple times and switch hands when the weight got too heavy. Soon she passed under a ceremonial gate shaped like a warrior's helmet, lamellated in ceramic tiles, "Gojo" embossed on the lintel, and was greeted by statues of lion-dogs, waiting to prowl in the dead of night in search of evil spirits. The Japanese villa was just as grand as she imagined, proclaiming its social pre-eminence atop the hill.

Hannah trudged up the genkan, out of breath, and slipped off her sandals before entering. The front doors were left wide open. It was quiet. At Wasserton there'd be a footman dressed in his finest livery waiting by the door, "Miss Hannah, may I take your things," but nobody was there to welcome her. She lowered Edith's suitcase on the cobbled floor and flexed her hands, relieving them of the burning heft. Wiping the sweat off her forehead, she couldn't help notice a large amorphous pine tree slanted to one side, big enough it covered the entire wall, brightly painted with luting songbirds and colorful flowers. One of the most beautiful artworks Hannah had ever seen. Was it really a painting?

Abandoning the suitcase, she stepped up the stairs and approached the mural to get a better look. The tree trunk was left bare to reveal polished wood underneath, but the remaining canvas was brushed in yellow ochre and assorted pigments and something glistened between the pine needles when she angled her head towards the sunlight. Fireflies? Pine combs? Bumblebees? She narrowed her eyes. No. Scrawled where the branches twisted and split apart were little gold kanji: 五条 高長 (Gojo Takanaga) married to 藤原 真理 (Fujiwara Mami), whose son, 五条 長経 (Gojo Nagatsune), married 清岡 亀姫 (Kiyooka Kamehime), whose first son then married 武田 結愛 (Takeda Yua) and on and on the lineage went, until Hannah's vision began to blur. She skipped to her and Satoru's branch carved at the bottommost section of the tree.

五条 悟 (Gojo Satoru) — 暗 華 (Thames Hannah)

She frowned.

For obvious reasons, harboring a non-Japanese name came with linguistic challenges. "Hannah" was the English version of the Hebrew name חַנָּה (Channah), meaning "favour, or grace." The closest Japanese equivalent was "雅子" (Masako), but this translation wasn't entirely accurate, nor phonetically similar. So to compensate, they chose "華" (Hana), meaning "flower" for her first name and substituted an entirely different sounding character, "暗"(Kurai), in place of "Thames."

Hannah glowered at the kanji. She didn't exactly fancy the idea of being memorialized as a "Flower of Darkness," but there it was. Etched in gold to amuse her great-grandchildren one day.

How nice.

Suppressing her disappointment, the seer's eyes flickered to the pair of names roosted above, the branch where Satoru's parents would be…

"It's a real Jakuchū," came a feminine voice from behind.

Her heart pounded. Hannah wheeled around to see a middle aged woman walking calmly towards her, dressed in an indigo kimono and white sash, oak brown hair pinned back in a simple bun. "The young master's great, great grandfather had it commissioned before the artist's death in 1800. It's been in the family ever since." The woman's honey glazed eyes shone like chawan cups. She bowed reverently. "Welcome, Gojo Hannah. My name is Makoto. I am the housekeeper here on the estate and will be showing you to your rooms today." She was very formal in her delivery, like addressing an empress.

Hannah blinked at the woman and waited for a tall albino man to come sauntering after her, but none appeared. "Satoru's not here?"

The housekeeper bowed again. "I'm afraid the young master was called away on a mission early this morning."

A sinking feeling pulled at the edges of her stomach. The same weight she felt in the car ride after her wedding. There'd been no note. No warning. "Did he say when he'd be back?"

The housekeeper frowned. "No ma'am. Apparently it was quite urgent. I don't know when he will return, but he gave me clear instructions that I keep you comfortable and answer all your questions." She then extended her arm, bidding her to come inside.

Quickly, before she forgot, Hannah turned to retrieve her suitcase from the genkan and said in very polite Japanese, "Lead the way."

With a nod, Makoto guided her down a main corridor featuring rows of shoji panels, connecting the many box rooms and passageways of the house, their feet cushioned by rows of woven tatami. Hannah felt as though they were moving backstage in a theater, one panel revealing another hidden scene after the next. It smelled like old books and aged timber and when she lifted her eyes to appraise the intricate woodwork on the ceiling, there wasn't a metal nail or hinge to be found, cypress and pine planks lodged and stacked onto each other like Janga pieces, sometimes designed in geometric patterns and shapes.

By Western standards, Japanese aesthetics were relatively plain, a "rusticity and simplicity that bordered on loneliness," but this perception of wabi-sabi was narrow-minded and lacked basic understanding. It failed to recognize nature's transitory quality, the Buddhist notion that permanence was an illusion; wood decays, seasons change, and men grow old. In keeping with this principle, a traditional Japanese home was intended to disintegrate and erode over time, hence the exclusion of concrete and fortified steel. The more natural the elements, the more one could appreciate their ephemeral beauty: "This might not be here tomorrow, so let's enjoy it while it lasts."

In Hannah's opinion, this was better than gilded drawing rooms and marbled staircases. She loved the clean lines and varnished wood, absent of junk and material possessions, the treasure being the house itself and the people who dwelled in it. Humble. Uncomplicated. Aimed to please, rather than impress (which in itself was impressive).

"The house once belonged to a samurai family prior to the Meiji Restoration," explained Makoto as they walked. "The Gojo family was bestowed the home in 1867, however much of the original paneling had to be replaced in 1890 due to fire damage."

Makoto parted a set of beautifully lacquered fusuma doors, mythical hosoge stenciled in gold leaf, and together they entered a large reception hall where a rosewood table sat ennobled in the center. A block of glistening ice melted on the tabletop, naturally cooling the spacious room, and glass bowls and vases were decorated around it to help captivate the eye. Bordering the walls were golden foldable screens, hosting a menagerie of Chinese cranes and dazzling peacocks, and the ceiling was coffered (goutenjou) with a combination of lacquered pine and gold to frame little pictures of flowers. Like most formal reception rooms, a tokonoma alcove was used to exhibit priceless artifacts and scrolls. In this particular alcove was a charming ikebana arrangement of gardenias and stemmed bellflowers, where shelved horizontally on a wooden backdrop were three ornamental katana, their hilts carved in green, white, and lavender jade with a Buddhist sutra hanging beside them. But the real pièce de résistance was the wall partition left entirely open, allowing guests a panoramic view of the tea garden outside, brimming with moss-covered rocks and lichen coated trees. Hannah stood still, breathing in the fresh mountain air, amazed.

It was like something out of a fairytale.

"Wonderful, isn't it?" whispered Makoto. Hannah closed her mouth and looked away, embarrassed. The housekeeper laughed. "Not to worry, ma'am. My reaction was much the same when I first came here. Come, your room is this way."

They passed through another set of fusuma and walked down an "L" shaped veranda with glass panes called an engawa and entered the private chambers of the house walled off from visitors. There was a smaller, ten-mat drawing room, and a joint onsen and bathroom, and within an English dining room hung a crystal chandelier and silver salvers circumferencing a white tablecloth. Hannah smelled incense and wanted to get a closer look at the bronzed Buddhist altar and kamidana shelf offering daily rice to the gods, but Makoto moved at a brisk pace.

"You'll be staying in the Paulownia Room, across from the young master," she said when they reached the end of a long hallway, two doors facing each other. Stopping at the door on the left, Makoto parted the shoji and gestured with a polite bow, "After you."

Hannah clutched her suitcase and stepped inside.

Just like every other room in the house, the boudoir was the epitome of elegance and refinement. Implied by its name, a blooming forest of purple paulownia trees were illustrated on the mulberry walls. A plush futon and comforter lay in the middle of the tatami. Two large tansu chests were huddled in one corner next to an oval mirror fixtured on a low dressing table. And in another corner was a sumptuous lacquered writing desk, a bundai, inlaid in mother-of-pearl peonies with a tasteful ikebana arrangement of real peonies bowled in crystal on top, emitting a sweet fragrance. Although, the flowers were somewhat muted by the bundles of unopened letters piled near the desk.

"I trust everything is to your liking, ma'am?" voiced Makoto, carefully watching her new mistress inspect the room.

Hannah turned to face the housekeeper, nervously pointing to the letters. "Are all those for me?"

The woman looked to where she was pointing and smiled. "The young master has been quite busy as of late," she said. "Now that you're here, he hopes you'll be willing to help him manage the estate and answer any official correspondence. He also thought you might like supporting him in his charity work."

Hannah's ears perked up. "Charity work?"

The housekeeper's face softened. "The young master is very generous," she said affectionately. "He founded a nonprofit that provides financial assistance for children orphaned by curse attacks. It's all facilitated anonymously, of course. Most recipients think they're receiving aid from the government." She looked down at the desk. "Though, I believe most of these are from well-wishers congratulating you on your marriage. If you'd like, I can help you read through them later."

Hannah stared at the stacks of enclosed parchment. The sheer magnitude of Makoto's revelation that underneath Satoru's immaturity and nonchalance was someone who cared deeply about those less fortunate. Fr. O'Malley hinted as much, but it felt good knowing another party was heard from.

"Yes, Makoto-san. I'd appreciate that greatly."

The housekeeper's mood brightened. She was quickly growing fond of her new mistress. "Would you like me to put those away with the other clothes?" she said, reaching for Hannah's trunk, which she'd yet to set down.

"Other clothes?" She hadn't remembered bringing other clothes. Everything she ever owned was stashed inside Edith's old trunk.

Evidently this was the signal Makoto had been waiting for. With a slight pep in her step, the housekeeper made her way over to the other side of the room and slid open a hidden door. Automatic lights flicked on. Again, she stood aside for Hannah to enter first, her eyes conveying something like excitement.

Hannah's trunk thudded to the floor along with her jaw.

The closet was built like a runway. Birkin and Kelly bags upholstered the top shelves, and lavish garments in every color, for every occasion, hung on two-tiered racks, while rows of designer shoes heeled the polished floor at the bottom. Glittering glass cabinets held Lacloche brooches and Cartier necklaces and Mikimoto pearl earrings. Ribbed fans and other acoutrements were mounted on placards, and when Hannah opened one of the built-in drawers along the wall, she unveiled swaths of paper-wrapped kimono and brocaded obi stitched in expensive omeshi silk. As a finishing touch, Makoto displayed both Hannah's wedding dress and uchikake at the end of the closet; West and East, side by side.

Hannah didn't tarry. She made a bee-line for the bridalwear, so consumed with nerves and anxiety, she scarcely remembered wearing the gown on her wedding day.

It was modest in style with long sleeves and high neckline like a modern Grace Kelly, covered in guipure lace and tambour embroidery. Her favorite detailing were the tiny seed pearls looped into the tulle, complimenting the hosoge and lotus floral appliqué; Sacred flowers for a sacred ceremony. She fingered the dainty buttons sewn down the back, the name "Valentino" branded on the necktag. She could still remember the shrewd Frenchwoman arriving at the convent to take her measurements, looking most displeased to be there.

Her eyes then wandered to her uchikake on the kimono stand, outstretched like a kite. It too was beautiful with its wisteria brocade and couched silver thread. She noted a small commemorative tag newly punched into the sleeve: "Courtesy of the House of Chiso - Congratulations," it read in English.

"I do hope you like them," said Makoto, hoisting Hannah's fallen trunk off the floor as she entered the closet. "For the kimono, we provided you with enough seasonal colors, as well as iromugi and houmongi to choose from, but I can always make more should you find them unsuitable."

"Hold on. You made these?" Hannah said in faint surprise, pointing to the kimono shelves. "By hand?"

The housekeeper stooped into a bow. "I've been sewing kimono since I was a young girl and received my dressing certification from the Kyoto Kimono Gakuin Kyoto Honko school. I had the young master pick the fabrics himself. However, you'll find some of them are quite old and have been passed down from generation to generation."

"Satoru picked the fabrics?" Hannah opened another compartment flush with chirimen silk and shimmering brocade. The ceaseless hours it took the housekeeper to cut, sew, and fold everything in preparation for her arrival.

Makoto went further. "Not just the fabrics, ma'am; The clothes, the shoes, the jewelry. The young master never does anything halfway. Fashion especially." She knelt on the floor and started unpacking Hannah's trunk, refolding and sorting non-clothing items as she talked. "We're still waiting for more dresses to arrive from Paris. They should be here by the end of the week."

"Wait," Hannah's voice rose an octave. She shook her head, dazed. "More dresses from Paris?"

Makoto nodded a second time. "We used the measurements from your wedding dress and placed orders through sketchbooks the couturiers sent us. Normally you'd be invited for a fitting, but to maintain the secrecy of your union, we couldn't risk any outsiders seeing you too early." She looked over her shoulder and pointed to a shelf. "I have the books organized over there to peruse at your leisure. The young master marked his selections in red."

Hannah spotted the sketchbooks. Printed along the spines were the usual suspects: Chanel, Dior, Armani Privé, Giambatsta Valli; fabled names belonging to that of haute couture. A craft strictly regulated by the French Ministry of Industry and the Chambres Syndicale. Curating the most prestigious and sought after artisans in the world, fashioning pieces at 30,000 minimum using only the finest materials, whose inner sanctum of clientèle constituted little more than 4,000 members of which Hannah was now secretly a part of. The elite of the elite.

The sorcerers in Western society wore these clothes, but never her. Never Hannah Thames.

None for words, The seer scanned over the assembly of clothing. A wedding gown was one thing. A whole closet was another. Jewelry and Birkins aside, this wardrobe probably fetched millions, impossible to have acquired overnight since a single couture garment took hundreds of hours to make, meaning Satoru would've needed to plan everything weeks in advance, months even. It left Hannah wondering why his initial idea was for her to stay away and keep her distance when he'd given her a closet to last a lifetime. "Gosh. Where do I even start?" she murmured, suddenly overwhelmed by the excess of shoes, silks, and pearl strands. How was one to go about owning this much wealth?

"There's no rush, ma'am," assured Makoto, gingerly placing her mother's emerald choker with the other jewels. "Anything you don't wish to keep will either be put in storage or sent to Sotheby's for auction." She closed the glass case and turned to face her lady. "Now, with your belongings accounted for, that leaves us with one last order of business." The housekeeper rose from the floor. "Your hand, please."

Once bitten and twice shy, Hannah wavered in relinquishing her hand, but Makoto did not grab, nor move from her spot, awaiting her mistress to reach out first. Cautiously, Hannah stepped forward and stretched out her arm, no Infinity there to block her way.

Upon taking her hand, the housekeeper unveiled a tiny sewing needle from the folds of her kimono sleeve. "Apologies, ma'am. This may sting a bit," she said and very lightly pricked the tip of Hannah's index finger with the needle. A small cupola of blood welled to the surface. Swapping the sewing needle for a square of washi paper, Makoto dabbed the finger with the thin leaflet, and without pause, briskly walked back to the bedroom entrance, her face holding the utmost concentration. Hannah followed closely behind, nursing her bleeding finger.

Halting in front of the shoji, the housekeeper took the soiled tissue and pressed it flat to the white screen, waited a few seconds, consulting her watch, then slowly peeled the paper away like a removable tattoo on a patch of skin. A blood stain the size of a coin bled through the mulberry sheath, oxidizing from bright red to ruddy brown.

Curious as to why the housekeeper would do such a bizarre thing, Hannah made to inquire, but all questions dispelled from her lips the moment she saw the blood miraculously vanish from the screen without a trace.

"Excellent," said Makoto, satisfied with the outcome. "The seal is complete."

Hannah stared, blinking at the door. "Sorry," she said, giving way to her confusion, "What seal, exactly?"

The housekeeper retained her serene smile. "It's normal for sorcerers to cast spells and incantations on their homes for added protection, and since this house has been so excellently preserved, so too has its magic." She lifted the stained washi paper for Hannah to see. "With your blood, the house now recognizes you as one of its occupants, particularly this room. Nobody, living or dead, should be able to enter these quarters without your permission." She raised her eyebrows. "Not even the young master."

Hannah slowly pondered this logic. "So, I entered a Blood Covenant?"

"You entered a contract, ma'am," Makoto corrected. "That's not quite the same thing. For starters, Blood Covenants can only be established between two persons. The house needed your blood to 'sign' the contract, yes, but that is all. It breaks once the occupant dies, no strings attached."

"I see," Hannah said, glancing down at her pricked finger, then back at the housekeeper. "But could you please explain that next time before sticking me with a needle?" She lightened her voice and smiled to show she wasn't angry, but it did little to prevent Makoto from bending over in a stiff bow.

"Forgive me, ma'am. It won't happen again."

Hannah felt her cheeks grow hot, unused to this new deferential treatment. "Right. Well, uh, suppose we better get started then." She swiftly turned to face the closet. The housekeeper seized the moment to clear her throat.

"Might I interest you in some tea first, ma'am?" she asked prudently, no longer bowing in rigid supplication. "The young master has informed me of your dietary restrictions. Black is perhaps too strong, but you may enjoy sampling some of our herbal teas. The leaves are grown right here on the estate."

A few deliberating seconds later Hannah tore herself away from the lavish clothes, smiling warmly at the housekeeper. "I'd enjoy nothing more," she said. The servant gave a prim nod and hastened to the kitchens to prepare her lady a tray. "And Makoto-san?"

Makoto's head stuck out the bedroom door. "Yes, ma'am?"

Her mistress's smile had not waned, draping one of the unwrapped kimono in her arms. "Thank you."

Feeling a rare swell of pride at her handiwork, the housekeeper smiled back, savoring her triumph and made one last bow. "My pleasure, Hannah-sama. If you need anything more, don't hesitate to ask." With that she made for the kitchens and left her mistress to sift through the closet. Hannah looked down at the clutched silk and sighed.

She was in for another long evening.

AUTHOR'S NOTES

For this chapter's notes, please visit AO3 (Same name).

Tumblr: lovedrunkheadcanons

The official GTAW Discord server is on my profile page. Come join us. We'd love to have ya. (Might have to copy/paste the URL from the website and not app).

:)