EIGHTH BLOOD

Chapter 66: The language of flowers

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—Many, many years ago, on the slopes of Mount Fuji—

Seiya shrieked as the pin she was holding pierced her thumb, drawing blood. She quickly shoved it into her mouth and sucked. Luckily, the fabric had escaped being ruined by her clumsiness.

As soon as her thumb had stopped bleeding, she fumbled around on the desk for the thimble her mother had told her to use, then slid it onto her thumb like a tiny metal hat. Seiya's mother was the village seamstress, and she relied on Seiya to help her with her work.

At thirteen, Seiya was the only girl her age who wasn't married or engaged. She'd had plenty of offers, but her mother had turned them all down. When Seiya had asked her why, she'd told her that none of the men had been worthy of her, and besides, they had a business to run. Despite their shop being situated several kilometres above sea level, they had a bunch of customers that travelled all the way from the capital to commission clothes from them.

When the front door slid open, Seiya inclined her head and smiled invitingly.

Her smile faltered when Kyūseishu's daughter strolled into the shop and pretended to examine the silks on the shelf nearest the door. Seiya's stomach did a somersault as the girl locked eyes with her from across the room. Midoriko was only a year older than her, but she was already more beautiful than any of the other girls in the village. She wasn't married, either, but her role as the village miko spared her from such a fate. Her father, the High Priest Kyūseishu, was one of Seiya's mother's closest friends, so she'd known Midoriko all her life.

That didn't make them friends, though.

To be honest, Seiya had always been too intimidated by her to hold a conversation, and worse yet, she got the sense that the miko didn't like her very much. Her suspicions only grew when Midoriko marched over to the desk she was sitting at and gave her a fierce look.

Seiya swallowed. "Um . . . Is there something I can do for you?"

"Yes," Midoriko answered instantly. "Do you make hakama?"

"Of course. What is it that you're—"

"Mine keep getting destroyed. I need a material strong enough to endure the hardships of battle."

Seiya fiddled with her thimble. "Will the fur of a fire-rat do?" she murmured shyly.

Midoriko frowned. "The fur of a what?"

"It's a creature from across the sea. A fire-rat's fur is stronger than most standard armour, so it's very durable. It's also flameproof. I think we still have some left."

Midoriko strummed her lip in thought. "That should be fine," she said after a while.

Seiya wore a relieved smile. "Great. I just need to take your measurements so I can—"

"How long will they take to make?"

"How long? Uh . . . It depends. I won't be able to start them right away, but when I do, they shouldn't take me longer than a week."

"I can't wait that long. My father and I are embarking on a quest soon. It's going to be dangerous, and the last thing I want is to have to keep stopping to replace my clothes."

Seiya's lips parted in surprise. She'd heard that Midoriko could sometimes act entitled, but she'd never witnessed it herself.

She knew that the miko was bossy – the handful of times they'd played together as children had cemented that fact in her mind – but Seiya secretly suspected that was because of her father. Kyūseishu was a kind man, but he was also strict and assertive. It was only natural that his daughter would be the same.

Contrastingly, Seiya was a complete pushover. She was often afraid to speak her mind, and she struggled to say no to people when they asked her for favours. She apologised for things that weren't her fault, whereas Midoriko had never apologised for anything in her life. Apparently, her stubbornness came from her mother, whom Seiya had never met, since the woman had died in childbirth fourteen years ago.

"I might be able to make some arrangements," she muttered. "But it'll still take me at least a couple of days to make them."

Midoriko's brown eyes flashed. "What if I helped? Would they be ready faster, then?"

Seiya's heart missed a beat. "You want to help?" she squeaked.

"Just answer the question."

"It would speed up the process, yes. But . . ."

"But what?"

"Do you even know how to sew?"

Seiya braced herself for some kind of retaliation, but Midoriko simply laughed and exclaimed, "Of course I know how to sew! I'm not stupid, you know."

"I didn't mean—"

"Oh, shut up, Seiya."

She paused. It had been years since Midoriko had called her by her name. Seiya had just assumed that she'd forgotten it, but evidently, that wasn't the case.

Seiya averted her eyes, embarrassment blooming in her cheeks.

Midoriko smirked and reached over to pick up the little grey thimble, before pocketing it and marching towards the door. Her parting words were, "See you tomorrow."

She left before Seiya could respond.

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"You said you knew how to sew."

"I do! It's not my fault you're making things overly complicated."

"They'll fall apart if they're not done properly. Just give me the needle and I'll—"

The sound of fabric tearing silenced her. Seiya's eyes widened in horror as Midoriko lifted the fabric for inspection, revealing a small rip where the needle had slipped. "Oops."

Seiya buried her face in her hands.

To her credit, Midoriko looked visibly apologetic, although she'd never say the words aloud. "Are they ruined?" she asked softly, poking her finger through the hole.

Seiya sighed and shook her head. "No."

Midoriko placed the fabric in Seiya's waiting hands and watched as she examined the hole. Any other tailor would have started again from scratch with a new piece of fabric, but Seiya wasn't like any of those other tailors. She covered the hole with her hand and closed her eyes, remembering what the fabric had looked like before. Midoriko's brow crinkled as she watched, but thankfully, she didn't ask what was going on.

Seiya exhaled slowly as the fabric fluttered beneath her palm.

When she removed her hand, the hole was gone.

Midoriko gasped. "How did you do that?"

Seiya opened her eyes and smiled shyly. Before she could explain that it was just something she'd always been able to do, the miko shuffled closer and stared deep into her eyes. Seiya's face heated in response to the proximity. She hoped it wasn't too obvious.

"I can't believe I never noticed," Midoriko said. "I always thought that you'd gotten your eyes from a demon."

"W-What?"

"Who is your father, Seiya?"

". . . I don't know. Mother said he died before I was born."

"A lie, obviously." Seiya's chest tightened, but Midoriko carried on. "You know, I used to think that he was a youkai, and your mother was just hiding it from you, but you don't feel like a hanyou. It makes sense now, though. Your magic feels just like mine."

Seiya's eyes widened. "But I'm not a miko."

"No, you're not. Technically, I'm not, either. But we're different, you and I."

"How?"

Midoriko pursed her lips. "I don't know," she said finally.

She leaned back and studied the newly repaired fabric. The red looked bright and glossy, whereas before, it had been duller than rust. Determination flashed through her brown eyes as she handed the needle to Seiya, who blinked in surprise.

"What else can you do?"

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Three years had passed since Midoriko had learned of Seiya's abilities. Since then, their relationship had changed from reluctant acquaintances to close friends.

Now that they were both technically adults, their responsibilities had doubled, meaning they saw each other less and less. Seiya ran the shop in her mother's stead, who had fallen ill, and Midoriko worked full-time as the village's beloved miko. The latter was about to change, though, as Midoriko was to be married in the summer. Her betrothed was a wealthy man from the capital, who was known for his kindness, but Seiya still hated him with every fibre of her being, even though they'd never met.

It wasn't unheard of for priestesses to give up their duties and marry, but it was highly unusual. Especially for ones as powerful as Midoriko. When Seiya had asked her why she'd accepted the proposal, the miko had told her that her father wished for a grandchild, so that their line would continue even after he was gone. Seiya couldn't see that happening any time soon, though. Kyūseishu didn't seem to have aged at all. He still looked exactly as he had when she and Midoriko were children, over a decade ago. It was hard to imagine him old and frail on his deathbed.

After closing up shop, Seiya made sure that her mother was comfortable before bedding down herself. She'd been having trouble sleeping lately, and the powder she'd purchased from the village herbalist wasn't having any effect. She sighed and mentally prepared herself for another sleepless night. Her eyes were trained on the ceiling, but her mind was far away. What was so great about Midoriko's betrothed, anyway? Who cared if he was kind? He was old enough to be her father. A man like him had no business sniffing around a respectable girl like her.

A loud tap on the shutters nearly gave her a heart attack.

Seiya crawled out of bed and reached for the knife she kept under her pillow, when she heard a voice coming from outside the shutters. Recognising it at once, she rushed over to the window and carefully peeled the shutters open.

Midoriko grinned and gestured for her to come out.

"I can't," murmured Seiya. "Mother might wake up and need me."

"I'm sure she'll be all right for an hour or two," Midoriko whispered back. "Come on. I need your help with something."

"What is it?" Seiya probed, but Midoriko's lips were sealed.

Seiya was secretly glad for the distraction, but she wasn't going to tell Midoriko that. The miko already had an ego the size of Nihon. Seiya was at least partially to blame for her conceited nature. Midoriko was impossible to say no to. She was the kind of person you wanted to please, because if you pleased her, she could make you feel like you'd just saved the world. It was addictive, that feeling. Not even Seiya was immune to her charms, which was why she was incapable of closing the shutters and falling back into bed.

The pair followed a path through the forest that led to a small waterfall. Before Seiya could ask what they were doing there, a large fan was shoved into her hand. Seiya studied it curiously. She'd seen mai ogi before, but she'd never held one. The fan was mostly white with purple shion flowers scattered across the surface, whereas Midoriko's was a dark red with yellow tsubaki.

"What are we doing?" asked Seiya.

"What does it look like? We're practicing for my wedding dance."

"People still do that?"

"Shige is old-fashioned."

"That's not all that's old."

Midoriko giggled. "He's only forty, Seiya."

"Only? You're turning eighteen next month!"

"Exactly. I'm practically an old maid. In a few years, no one will want me."

"I will." Seiya immediately blushed at the implication. "I mean . . . It doesn't matter what you look like. Whether you're eighteen or eighty, you'll always look the same to me."

Midoriko's eyes softened. With the hand that wasn't holding the fan, she reached out and caught Seiya's, threading their fingers together like strands of thread. She was still wearing the hakama they'd made with the fur of a fire-rat. Seiya had made a couple of adjustments over the years – largely to accommodate for Midoriko's growing height and hip size – but for the most part, they'd remained unchanged. Soon, Midoriko would be wearing silk dresses and painting her lips with rouge instead of sharpening her swords. Seiya wondered what would become of the hakama.

The miko smiled and raised their joined hands. "Do you know much about flowers?" she asked.

Seiya shook her head.

"My father says they can be used to convey emotions. Isn't that clever?"

"What kind of emotions?"

"All kinds. Apparently, husbands used to give their brides forget-me-nots during the wedding ceremony because they represent true love."

Seiya felt her eyes being drawn to the flowers on the fan she was holding. "What do these mean?"

"Memory," replied Midoriko. "I want you to remember me after I'm gone."

Seiya's cheeks warmed yet again. "What about the ones on yours?"

This time, it was Midoriko's turn to blush. Seiya resisted the urge to gasp. She'd never seen her friend look so flustered before. She waited patiently for her to answer, but Midoriko simply closed her eyes and said, "I can't recall. Silly me."

Seiya laughed. "It's not like you to forget something, Mi-chan."

Midoriko smiled. The pink in her cheeks didn't fade as she taught Seiya the fan movements and all of the steps. Pretending that the waterfall was music, they danced until first light.

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Midoriko and her father left for the capital several days later.

Seiya finally worked up the nerve to give her the shiro-kakeshita she'd secretly been making and asked if Midoriko would wear it at the wedding. The miko had been so moved by the gesture that she'd actually wept. Before Seiya could tell her not to cry, Midoriko threw her arms around her neck and embraced her. Blushing fiercely, Seiya returned the embrace.

She didn't know it then, but that would be the last time she ever saw Midoriko.

News of hers and Kyūseishu's deaths at the hands of a terrible demon swept through the land, spreading sorrow. Devastated, Seiya closed the shop and confined herself to her room, which her mother had recently passed away in. Death was everywhere. Surely, it would come for her next.

It didn't, but something else did.

Not long afterwards, a young man appeared on her doorstep with a child.

The child was Midoriko's daughter. Her name was Suitopi – like the flower – and she'd just turned four. Suitopi's father had perished from a mysterious illness shortly after her birth, and with her mother and grandfather both dead as well, she was an orphan. Her dowry consisted of three things: a dagger, a thimble, and a round purple jewel which she wore around her neck.

The objects brought back memories Seiya didn't even realise she had of a life above the clouds. One moment, she was minding her own business up in the heavens, and the next, she was falling. After she crashed, her body took on a different shape, and a cocoon grew around her to keep her safe from harm. When the cocoon opened, she saw the late Kyūseishu's face peering down at her.

The man who'd brought Suitopi to her also had a letter from Midoriko. Seiya snatched it out of his hand and tore it open, heart beating hard. The letter was short, but brevity was Midoriko's trademark. The sight of her handwriting was enough to make Seiya's eyes fill with tears.

Dear Seiya,

I want to start off by saying I'm sorry. I should have said it to you a long time ago, but my pride made it impossible. I'm sorry for the way I treated you when we were children. I'm sorry for always ruining your fabrics. And most importantly, I'm sorry for lying to you.

My father isn't human. He's like you, Seiya, except he remembers the life he had before. Please take care of my daughter. You're not going to believe me, but she can see the future. Help her. Stop the calamity before it happens.

And remember – duty before love.

Midoriko.

Sobs racked her body as she finished reading the letter.

"Did you know Mama?" Suitopi asked innocently.

Seiya smiled through her tears and nodded.

The little girl smiled back. "I like your dress."

"Thank you," sniffed Seiya. "I like yours, too."

"Thanks. Mama made it for me."

Seiya's smile grew. The thought of a silk-clad Midoriko slumped over an expensive desk with a sewing needle filled her with pride. She clutched the letter close to her heart and crouched in the doorframe, meeting the little girl's painfully familiar stare.

"Your eyes are really pretty," Suitopi said, gazing into them. "I've never seen purple ones before."

Seiya's puce eyes sparkled as she said, "You just have to know where to look."

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Author's Corner

The Dressmaker's backstory has finally been revealed! Was it what you expected? If you're wondering what yellow tsubaki flowers represent, I recommend looking up Hanakotoba (aka the language of flowers).

Thanks for reading!