Mariko gritted her teeth, willing herself silent. Her nose scrunched as a cart filled with manure passed by. Flies buzzed before her face, and she fended them off with a wave of one hand.
She did not care if ōkami found her dishonest. She found him dishonorable.
Which was far worse.
In an attempt to drown out her irritation, Mariko pitched her voice louder. “All matters of love make little sense to me anyway. As do most things that cannot be proved as fact.”
“Why is that?” Ranmaru asked.
“Love is—” She shifted in her saddle, fighting to sit taller, to convey a larger sense of self. “It isn’t something that can be understood or explained. It’s intangible. Like magic. Those who do not possess its power can never fully grasp it.”
Ranmaru inclined his head. “That sounds rather sad.”
“And smells like horseshit,” ōkami said over his shoulder. “Like the words of a boy with a great deal left to learn.”
Once more, Mariko bristled at his judgment. “Only a boy with a great deal left to learn himself would ever think that of someone else.”
“Or one with a great deal of regret,” Ranmaru said softly. Soberly.
ōkami did not look their way as he spoke. “There is indeed a great deal of regret in my life.” Even from a distance, Mariko saw a shadow descend on his face. For once she thought she might catch a glimpse of vulnerability in the Wolf. She leaned in closer. Waiting. Her breath bated.
If something—anything—made the Black Clan’s champion weak, Mariko desperately wished to know what it was.
Follow orders. Engender trust.
Strike when they least expect it.
“My life has been filled with death and lies and loose women.” ōkami pushed back a fall of black hair, meeting her gaze. Holding her there. Rapt. “I regret everything else.” He smiled, his hooded, heavy-lidded eyes brimming with mockery.
Truly he was hopeless.
Mariko almost snarled in frustration. She bit down on her cheek to keep silent. To control her need to rebuke. This time ōkami definitely slowed the pace of his horse to match that of Mariko. He drew alongside her, though he did not glance her way for some time.
“So you don’t believe in silly sentiments like love.” He fixed that same appreciative look on her from before. The one tinged in approval.
It only compelled Mariko’s need to disagree. “I didn’t say that.”
“You said you preferred things that can be proved as fact.”
“I meant that it’s difficult to prove a feeling as fact. But I’ve seen it happen before.”
Mariko had watched Muramasa Amaya—the daughter of her father’s famed metalsmith—fall in love with Kenshin. Foolishly, desperately in love with him. When they were younger, her brother had failed to notice the signs. But Mariko had seen them. In moments when Amaya thought no one was looking, her attention would flit to Kenshin. Linger for a spell. The look Mariko saw there often left her feeling hollow.
Often left her wishing someone would look at her that way. Just once.
“Did it look like magic?” ōkami asked, his tone circumspect. Mariko expected him to mock her again, but when she turned toward him—bracing herself for his biting scorn—she did not see any evidence of it.
His eyes were clear pools of deep water, hiding nothing. Two black mirrors, drawing her in. Making her question.
A brush of heat danced across her skin.
“It did.” Mariko fought to keep her voice even. “She looked at me as though I were magic.”
ōkami’s eyes remained constant. A sky without stars.
It was Mariko who turned away first. Only to catch Ranmaru laughing once more.
With a click of his tongue, ōkami prodded his horse forward, well beyond earshot, the rope between them going taut. Again Mariko fidgeted in her seat, wishing for all the world that she’d changed the subject. That she could turn back time and begin this conversation anew.
“Have you ever loved anyone?” she asked Ranmaru bluntly, pleased to see him startle, if only for a heartbeat.
Serves him right for starting this mess.
Ranmaru hesitated before replying. “Yes.”
“Did it feel like magic?” Irritation bled into each syllable.
“Sometimes it does.” But his smile was not from the heart. “Other times it feels like an endless siege.”
She shot him a quizzical glance.
Ranmaru smiled brighter. As though he were coaxing himself beyond the truth. “I suspect you will understand what I mean soon.” He sat forward again. Cutting off their conversation before it could start. No longer willing to permit Mariko any glimpse into his life.
Despite her growing curiosity, Mariko knew not to press further.
They continued toward the center of Inako. Toward a winding river, covered in layers of drying petals. When they rounded a bend in the road, an arched bridge of dark grey stone emerged before them, its gritty surface stained green with lichen, dripping with moss. Before crossing, the trio tethered their horses to a post and paid a hunched old man to watch their steeds.
Mariko’s eyes passed over the row of horses already under his care.
At first, it all seemed so silly to her. Anyone with the smallest dagger could rob the old man at any time. But the types of horses left in his charge were fine beasts bridled with brightly colored reins. With tassels fringed in gold and silver. Emblazoned with the crests of Inako’s finest families.
Only fools would steal from the most powerful people in the imperial city.
Fools like the Black Clan.
The river before Mariko flowed at a leisurely pace. The lanterns hanging from the balustrades on either side of the bridge swayed brightly. At its end—along the opposite riverfront—a line of dogwoods interspersed with cherry trees shaded everything from view. Kept it hidden. Secret. The scent of jasmine and musk curled its invisible fingers toward them, beckoning them closer. When Mariko followed ōkami and Ranmaru across the bridge, a shower of pink and white petals caressed her skin before cascading into the water like thick flakes of snow.
She had never seen anything like this before.
Without being told, Mariko knew they were crossing into one of the most fabled districts of the imperial city.
Hanami.
—
At a distance, the single-storied structure appeared to be nothing more than a teahouse. Mariko, ōkami, and Ranmaru waited outside a simple gate. Rang a simple, unremarkable bell.
Its liquid chime coiled into an almost summer sunset. A sky lingering in the blue hour, just beyond nightfall. The wicket gate creaked open, and Mariko trailed behind ōkami and Ranmaru as they followed a clean-faced young woman clad in a silk kimono. Her steps were light. Quick. As though she were skimming across the clouds. She led them to a sliding door, pausing only to allow them passage.
When the sight before her centered, Mariko stopped short. Fought to keep from gasping.