anger that banished the nocturnal fantasies, reminding her that her father and
best friend were imprisoned by her mother’s murderer. If she could have
slapped herself, she would have.
You have more important things to think about than boys.
“I need a bath and a change of clothes.” She tried to keep her voice even; it
wasn’t his fault she was being an idiot. “So find yourself a comfortable chair in
the hallway.”
Hiro smiled, covered his fist with a small bow. Stuffing his oni helm beneath one arm, he backed out of the room, sliding the door shut behind him.
She could see his silhouette painted on the rice-paper by the scarlet sun, like a
shadow puppet from the festival pantomimes. Stalking into the dressing room,
she sat down in front of the looking glass and began attacking her tangles, refusing to think any more about dreams or childish fantasies or the boy waiting
outside her bedroom door.
The girl reflected in the mirror was filthy: chi-stained skin, dirt and oni
blood spattered across her clothes, bare feet, knuckles scabbed.
She felt ugly. Ugly like this city and the people who ruled it.
The suite had a private bathhouse, and she soaked in the deliciously warm
water for what seemed like hours, watching dried blood and sweat reconstitute
and form a dirty scum across the surface. The shampoo smelled like wisteria.
She drifted, eyes closed, remembering the village in the trees. The knife in her
hand. The blood on the floor.
The promise.
In the solitude and rippling hush, she gradually became aware of an emptiness inside her. It was as if someone had taken a piece of her and pulled it away,
so slowly and gently that she didn’t notice until there was only a hollow left
behind. But now it ached. There was an absence in her head, the feeling that
she’d forgotten something as vital as her own name or the shape of her face. She tried to grasp the feeling, to find a source. Her father? Her mother? And
then she blinked, running her hand over her eyes.
Buruu.
She missed him. Not like a lotus-fiend missed his fix, or a drunkard his
bottle. It was a softer longing, gentle and sad and deep; the lonely ache of a
morning without birdsong, or a flower without sunlight. She reached out with
the Kenning and felt him on the periphery, a smudge of heat on the edges of
her senses. And though she was too far away to hear his reply, she pushed out
toward him; a mute, clumsy affection, the ache of his absence.
I miss you, brother.
She closed her eyes, felt warm tears in her lashes.
I need you.
Drying herself off, she heard the outer door to the bathhouse slide open.
She reached down into her dirty clothes, wrapped her hand around the handle
of her tantō.
“Hiro-san?” she called.
A small figure appeared in the doorway; a girl about her age with perfect
skin and big, beautiful eyes, dark as ebony and smeared with kohl. Her lips
were plump, pouting, glistening with a long vertical stripe of deep red paint.
White cherry blossoms drifted across the silk of her beautiful scarlet furisode
robe. Her hair was tied up in an exquisite coil, pierced with ivory needles and
blood-red tassels. She held an enormous bundle of clothing in her arms, straining under the weight, her long sleeves dragging on the ground.
“Forgive me, Lady.” She bowed at the knees, eyes on the floor. “The Mistress
of the house bid me to bring you these.”
“Lady Aisha?”
“Hai.” The girl bowed again, placed the bundle at her feet. “I am Tora Michi.
My honorable Mistress asks that when you are bathed and rested, you visit her
for tea. She wishes to convey her heartfelt gratitude to you for Tomo.” “Tomo?”
“Her dog, Lady.” The girl politely covered her mouth to hide the smile. “She
wished you to have this j?nihitoe to wear for the occasion. She commands that
I help you dress.”
“Um, that’s all right.” Yukiko eyed the pile of fabric with vague suspicion.
“You can leave it there.”
“Have you ever worn j?nihitoe before, Lady?”
“. . . No.”
The smile grew wide enough that the girl’s hand couldn’t cover it. “Then you will need my help.”
It took an hour to get into the dress, and by the end of the procedure, Yukiko had sworn a dozen times that she would never wear one of the damned things again. Layer upon layer was wrapped about her: undergarments of white silk first, eleven more layers to follow, each more complicated than the last. The
outfit must have weighed a good forty pounds.
When the dressing was done, Michi applied make-up to Yukiko’s face:
bone-white powder for her skin, thick kohl around her eyes, that same vertical
stripe of red paint for her lips. Her hair was twisted up into a broad coil, held in
place by golden combs. The girl peered over Yukiko’s shoulder into the looking
glass when she was done and smiled.
“You are very beautiful, Kitsune Yukiko.”
“All this just for tea?”