That time, the sight of the older woman’s judgment spurred a different reaction.
Anger roiled beneath Mariko’s skin. She snatched her hand away and averted her gaze, as though she were afraid. Ashamed. The servant’s stern expression lost some of its severity. As though Mariko’s embarrassment was an emotion she could understand and accept. When she next took hold of Mariko’s hand, her touch was careful. Almost soft.
In the same instant Mariko fought to curb her anger, she paused to take note.
My fear—even when it is feigned—has more weight when it is matched alongside anger.
One of the young women assisting the gruff servant bowed beside the wooden tub before lifting a pile of muddied, fraying clothing into the light. “My lady, may I dispose of these?” Her round face and button nose squinched in disgust.
They were the garments Mariko had worn in Jukai forest, when she’d been disguised as a boy. She’d refused to discard the faded grey kosode and trousers, even at Kenshin’s behest. They were all she had now. Her eyes widening in what she hoped to be a sorrowful expression, Mariko shook her head. “Please have them washed and stored nearby. Though I long more than anything to forget what happened to me, it is important to keep at least one reminder of the consequences when a wrong turn is taken in life.”
The ill-tempered elder servant harrumphed at her words. Another young girl in attendance grasped one of Mariko’s hands and began scrubbing beneath her nails with a brush fashioned from horsehair bristles. As she worked, the servant with the round face and button nose poured fine emollients and fresh flower petals across the surface of the steaming water. The colors of the oil shimmered around Mariko like fading rainbows. A petal caught on the inside of her knee. She dipped her leg beneath the water and watched the petal float away.
The image reminded her of what the old man at the watering hole had said the night she’d first met the Black Clan, disguised as a boy. He’d told her she had a great deal of water in her personality. Mariko had been quick to disagree with him. Water was far too fluid and changeable. Her mother had always said Mariko was like earth—stubborn and straightforward to a fault.
I need to be water now, more than ever.
Mariko wondered what had become of the Black Clan after ōkami had surrendered to her betrothed. Wondered how Yoshi and Haruki and Ren and all the others had fared following such a dire blow. Only three nights past, they’d learned their leader had been deceiving them for years. He was not in fact the son of Takeda Shingen. The boy they’d followed and called Ranmaru for almost a decade was instead the son of Asano Naganori. He’d assumed the role of Takeda Ranmaru to protect his best friend and make amends for his father’s betrayal—a betrayal that had resulted in the destruction of both their families. This boy’s real name was Asano Tsuneoki.
They’d all been deceived.
And Mariko’s betrothed—Prince Raiden—had left the forest with a prize worthy of laying at his father’s burial mound.
The true son of Takeda Shingen, the last shōgun of Wa: ōkami.
Resentment smoldered hot and fast in Mariko’s chest. Guilt coiled through her stomach. She dared to sit in a pool of scented water, allowing her skin and hair to be brushed and polished to perfection while so many of those she cared about suffered untold fates?
She took a steadying breath.
This was necessary. This was the reason she’d asked Kenshin to bring her to Inako. If Mariko intended to act on the plans she’d formulated while journeying from Jukai forest to the imperial city, she had to be in the seat of power. Mariko had to find a way to free ōkami. She had to convince her betrothed that she was the willing, simpering young woman he surely desired in a bride. Then—once she’d earned a measure of trust—she could find a way to begin feeding information to the outside. To those who fought to change the ways of the imperial city and restore justice to its people.
To topple evil from its vaunted pedestal.
“Stand,” the servant demanded in a curt tone.
Respect for an elder—regardless of status—drove Mariko to obey the truculent woman without question. She let the woman lead her to the largest piece of polished silver she’d ever seen in her life. Her eyes widened at the sight of her naked body reflected back at her.
Her time in Jukai forest had changed Mariko on the outside as well. The angles of her face were more pronounced. She was thinner. What had been willowy before was now honed. Muscles she’d not known she’d possessed moved as she moved, like ripples across a pond.
She was stronger now, in more ways than one.
The elderly servant tsked again. “You’re as thin as a reed. No young man will want to caress skin and bones, least of all one like Prince Raiden.”
Again the urge to react rose in Mariko’s throat. Though she could not really discern the reason for the woman’s distain, she suspected the servent belived a girl who lived amoung bandits did not deserve to marry into the imperial family. Did not merit the attention of a prince. The truth blazed bright within her. She was more than an object of any man’s desire. But on this particular score, the servant was right. She did need to eat if she intended to play the part.
Be water.
Mariko smiled through gritted teeth. Let her lips waver as though she were exhausted. Weak. “You’re right. Please do whatever you can—whatever magic you possess—to restore me to my past self. To the sort of young woman who might please the prince. I want nothing more than to forget what happened to me.” She struggled to stand taller. Fought to look proud.
Though the creases on her features deepened, the servant nodded. “My name is Shizuko. If you do as I say, it is possible we can remedy the effects of this … misfortune.”
Mariko slid her arms into the proffered silken undergarment. “Make me fit for a prince, Shizuko.”
Shizuko sniffed and cleared her throat before directing the other servant girls to come forward. In their arms were bolts of lustrous fabric. Piles of brocade and painted silk, wrapped in sheets of translucent paper. Trays of jade and silver and tortoiseshell hairpieces.
Mariko ran the tip of a finger down the needled point of a silver hairpiece. Recalled one of the last times she had held one in her hand.
The night she’d pierced it through a man’s eye for attacking her.
Mariko knew what she needed to do. For the sake of those she held dear, she needed to appear tall and proud.
And hapless.
She spoke in a near whisper, as though her words were nothing but an afterthought. “The imperial family will need me to appear strong, just as they are.”
Just as they will need to be.
Because Hattori Mariko had a plan.
And this unwitting woman had already provided her with the first piece of the puzzle.
The Ox and the Rat
Theirs was a complicated relationship.
One built on a bower of hatred, shaped on a foundation of deceit. A relationship rooted in the designs of two young mothers, who’d both raised their sons to share in their mutual enmity, while they’d vied for the attention of a bored sovereign. Yearned for him to bestow his favor upon them.