Michi covered her grin.
“Lady Aisha is the sister to the Shōgun. Most ladies of the court would
spend an entire day preparing for an audience with her.”
“Gods, what a waste. There are people out in the street begging for bread
right now.”
Michi tilted her head to one side, narrowed eyes, bee-stung lips pressed
tight together.
“We should depart. The Lady will be waiting.”
Walking in the j?nihitoe proved just as cumbersome as putting the thing
on. The hem of the dress was tight around her ankles, and Yukiko found she
could only manage short, shuffling steps across the polished boards. When
Michi opened the bedroom door, Hiro was still kneeling on the other side. He
caught sight of Yukiko and snapped to his feet with a whine of gears and a spitting hiss of exhaust, leaving his jaw behind on the floor.
“You . . .” Hiro stammered. “You look . . .”
“Ridiculous,” Yukiko said. “So the less said about it, the better.” Hiro marched behind as the girls shuffled into the palace proper. Polished
pinewood boards stretched in every direction, rice-paper walls adorned with
beautiful artwork and long blood-red amulets of curling paper, scribed with
protective kanji. Ceiling fans creaked overhead in the stifling heat, and Yukiko
felt a bead of sweat running down her spine to the small of her back where her
tantō was hidden. Servants stopped and bowed at the knees as they passed,
eyes on the floor. By the time the trio reached the gardens, Yukiko’s feet were
throbbing, calf muscles protesting at the bizarre, shuffling gait she’d been forced
to adopt.
They walked along a broad veranda, sweeping gardens to their left, the
hoarse chirping of miserable sparrows piercing the reek. The trees were bent, twisted, leaves a sickly shade of gray. A large stone statue of Hachiman spilled cloudy water from its hands into a little creek, but Yukiko could see no koi fish swimming below the surface; just dead leaves and smooth, round stones. She remembered playing in these gardens as a child, chasing the birds, searching in vain for butterflies. She remembered her father kneeling down in front of her,
telling her that her mother was gone. That she wasn’t coming back. She blinked back the threat of tears and coughed, lotus pall creeping across
her tongue. Squinting up at the darkening afternoon sky, she saw that it was
the color of old blood.
The bushimen guards murmured as they passed, more and more of the
scarlet tabards appearing as they proceeded deeper into the palace. When
they reached the royal wing, the scarlet was replaced with golden tabards of the
Kazumitsu Elite, simple iron breastplates traded for great hissing suits of ō-yoroi.
The Iron Samurai would bow to Hiro, fists covered with one palm, and he
would stop and return the gesture, the pistons and gears of his armor singing.
Once the formalities were done, the Elite would look at her, silent as ghosts,
curious eyes behind their oni masks.
The hallway floorboards creaked and chirped beneath their feet: the song of
the so-called “nightingale floors,” meant to dissuade assassins and the unwelcome eavesdropping of nosy servants. Yukiko felt eyes upon her even when nobody was around, her skin prickling with unease. The robes were heavy, stifling,
and she wished for all the world to be back in her simple uwagi and simple life. The creaking stairs up to the tearoom were torture. Hiro knelt on the
ground just outside as Michi slid open a set of double doors and announced
her name. Yukiko stumbled inside, nearly tripping, blinking in the gathering
dusk amidst the tittering of a dozen young girls.
“Shhh,” hissed the Lady Aisha, snapping her fingers. The giggling died immediately.
Yukiko stepped out of her sandals and peered around the room. Walls
painted with tiger motifs, prowling in a stylized jungle. Balcony overlooking
the garden, piteous sparrow song drifting through the open doors, entwined
with a blessedly cool breeze. Mats of lotus wicker across the floor, a low table in
the middle of the room surrounded by silken cushions. A dozen serving girls
in scarlet furisode lurked on the periphery, staring at her with unmasked curiosity. But it was the woman in the center who caught Yukiko’s attention and
held it tight.
The Lady Aisha was a few years older than she, a woman in the prime of her
beauty. She seemed carved out of alabaster, a statue come down from its pedestal to swim among the flesh. Make-up, hair, dress, everything about her was immaculate. High cheekbones, rivers of coiled, raven locks, full, painted lips. Yukiko wondered how many serving girls had slaved for how many hours, all for the sake of her appearance. Though the Lady was stunning—breathtaking in fact—all Yukiko felt was disgust; a disdain at the wealth on display, the effort behind the facade. She could feel it roiling behind her teeth as she pressed
her forehead to the floor.