Author's Notes: I've subtly mentioned in some of my previous chapter notes that Kenshin was possessive of Tomoe even during their time in Kohagiya. Initially, he referred to her as "Tomoe-san" and used the pronoun "anata", but as time progressed, even in Kohagiya, he began calling her "kimi". This essentially signaled to everyone in Kohagiya that she was his woman. Until now, Tomoe has been reserved and barely conversed with anyone. However, Kenshin finally finds himself in a situation where he sees her talking to another man.
The soft whisper of dawn touches upon my visage, my neck, and the shawl that envelops me. For a fleeting moment, it casts me into a haze of confusion. I come to the realization that I have once again succumbed to deep slumber.
The air carries the disturbingly sweet aroma, tempting me to remain still for just a moment longer.
The morning's light caresses gently, as tender as the hand that, under cover of night, released me from the chains of blood.
Just, what am I doing?
As clarity returns to me, my eyes fall upon the shawl, the very one she had draped around me in the darkness. With a hand that betrays my reluctance, I trace the outline of the fabric, drawing in the scent that lingers. The fragrance, both familiar and elusive, is Hakubaiko. It envelops my senses in a subtle, enchanting manner – it is unmistakably hers.
A certain reluctance takes hold of me, a hesitancy to break free from the comfort of the shawl. It feels as though, by clinging to it, I might somehow maintain my grasp on her. Such a notion is utterly preposterous.
What, indeed, am I doing?
This question arises within me once more. Almost impulsively, I free myself from its hold and endeavor to shut out my thoughts.
In the act of trying to barricade my mind, a peculiar frustration begins to simmer within me.
Why is it that she occupies my thoughts?
Why must I keep thinking of her?
I recall the night, my wish for her to stay, yet, she left, without looking back.
I chide myself for such childish yearnings.
The shawl, now folded, I return to its place on the corner of the Tatami.
Descending to Matsu Hall, I come upon my fellow Ishin Shishi, already assembled at their customary low tables, as usual, their voices lively as ever.
Upon the sliding of the Shoji door, it's apparent that the one serving today is not her. Before me lay the morning fare: fish, freshly caught from the embrace of the Kamo River, grilled to a perfect finish, accompanied by rice and Miso soup.
The chatter of the Shishis flows with ease, a simple joy in their tone, largely stemming from the fresh fish, reflecting their own modest origins. They talk of fishmongers, of bargaining over the day's catch, the camaraderie of the marketplace.
As I join in the meal, a subtle shift in taste becomes apparent. It must be her, I think. The flavor of her cooking stands distinct from that of Kyoto, yet it holds such appeal that even the Shishis, well-versed in Kyoto's culinary ways, devour it with monstrous appetite, their lively banter fades, giving way to the sounds of slurping and chopsticks clattering against porcelain.
"The quality of food has really improved since Tomoe-chan joined us," they jest. Their casual, affectionate use of "-chan" grates on me, their undue familiarity a source of irritation. Even I have only addressed her as "-san," a courtesy I extend to all women.
Their idle chatter continues, unbridled. An excited voice proclaims, "Looking at her beautiful face makes my heart—" only to be cut off by a swift, "Keep it down. Battousai is here," whispered under a gross underestimation of my hearing. They must imagine her as my woman. My woman, the words echo within me, yet she is not.
In the gentle embrace of the mid-day sun, I find my place by the window of my chamber, idly observing the streets of Kyoto as they bathe in the sunlight, a brilliance too piercing for prolonged scrutiny. The wind carries the city's rhythm as the sun sprinkles a dappled light upon the Tatami mat within the room. Leaning upon the window's edge, my gaze, as if guided by some unseen force, drifts to the vicinity of Kohagiya's entrance—the very spot where her eyes last met mine, and there, my gaze halts, seized by an involuntary hold.
I spot her, adorned in a Kimono that seems somewhat too conspicuous for the elegance it attempts to contain, as though it rests awkwardly upon her grace. Yet, it is not her attire that captures my essence. The typically serene, almost voiceless woman, is engaged in conversation with a man, a stranger to my eyes. His visage eludes me. He stands taller than myself, possibly older than both of us, clad in a kimono of such refined fabric that it underscores the vast expanse lying between our existences, stirring a sense of inadequacy within me that swirls like a speck of dust caught in my eye.
As she converses, my eyes search her expression, seeking a glimpse of what remains unseen to me—a smile. In my heart, I harbor the fear that should her lips curve in joy at his words, something within me, indistinct and fragile, may fracture. Yet, the smile does not grace her features, and while relief washes over me, a part detests this reluctance to see her content.
I understand this sensation, jealousy. No, it is not as if the seeds of jealousy have never sprouted within me. Indeed, there have been moments, when upon reflection, I found myself lacking the natural constitution to masterfully employ the technique of Hiten Mitsurugi-Ryu, a fact made clear by the ease with which my master wielded such power from my earliest memories. This feeling mirrors that, yet it carves a deeper wound. It did not gnaw at me thus in those days. It did not feel like this, not akin to a fishbone stuck in my throat. The words of my master echo through the chambers of my mind:
"There is not a single person who has chosen their birth. There is no point in worrying about what you cannot get even with effort. One should think about how to use what they have to go beyond their own limitation."
With eyes shut, I try to absorb the wisdom of his words, yet upon opening them, the scene before me revives that relentless discomfort, unchanged, persistent.
Observing them, every nuance - her lips moving, her arms' subtle gestures, his hands reaching out towards her, his face obscured from view, yet its reflection on the canal's surface reveals a smile, steadfast and unyielding. Each detail, in its entirety, grates on me, a blend of irritation, sorrow, and despair. I resolve to look away; what significance does it hold to me whom she engages with? She and I are strangers. The memory of her hand clasped in mine, the memory of our lips meeting, all now seem a fiction. A fiction that, while once sweet, now exudes a venomous taste.
I rise, and with a measured pace, leave the room, turning but to catch a fleeting glimpse of the scene now nearly hidden from view as I slide the shoji aside. A moment later, I dismiss the sight from my mind and step out, letting the shoji shut behind me.
Descending the stairs to the ground level, a strange turmoil seizes the depths of my soul, a discomfort akin to a weight upon my chest, squeezing the breath from me. This sensation rises, unbidden, like bubbles breaking the surface of a pond.
In my efforts to dispel my feelings, almost in desperation, I try not to ponder on the stark contrast between the realm in which I dwell and that of the man who, possibly at this very moment, continues his conversation with her.
Then, the chatter of the inn's young helpers reaches my ears.
"Did you see? That is Aoki-san, the heir to that grand Gofukuten. I believe it's called Yuugen."
Unwittingly, my steps halt. Another voice replies,
"But why is he here?" The talk among them continues unabated.
"Aren't you aware? It seems Okami-san occasionally sends Tomoe-chan to their establishment."
"Does he hold an interest in Tomoe-chan?"
"Given his appearance... I would imagine so."
"Yet, does she not share her quarters with that Shishi?"
"When one is beautiful, such matters are easily overlooked. We couldn't possibly understand," a voice laughs in amusement.
"After all, with Aoki-san being the successor to a prosperous Gofukuten, she stands to gain a comfortable life."
"I envy her. How I wish to break free from this existence."
"Do you reckon she charmed him?"
"Impossible! Tomoe-chan is hardly such a woman."
"But how can you be so sure? She scarcely speaks."
"I just..." The voice is abruptly silenced by Okami-san's commanding tone.
"How much longer do you girls plan to idle and gossip? Do you imagine work will complete itself if you merely move your lips?" The attendants scatter at once.
Yet, for reasons unknown to me, I remain motionless on the stairway, lost in thought. It's as if every doubt that crept into my heart was affirmed as truth, even though I wished, more than anything, for those suspicions, those feelings, to be unfounded.